John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor 

And  Other  People 


By 

Alvin  Johnson 


NEW  YORK 

HARCOURT.  BRACE  AND  HOWE 
1919 


COPYRIGHT.    1919,    BY 
HARCOURT,    BRACE    AND    HOWK.    INC. 


THE    QU'NN   a   BODEN   COMPANY 
RAHWA>      N     J 


CONTENTS 

FACE 

JOHN  STUYVESANT  ANCESTOR       ....  3 

A  PLACE  IN  THE  SUN 55 

A  SYMPATHETIC  STRIKE 67 

THE  KILLING  OF  DIFFERENT   MAN    ...  72 

FORBIDDEN    FRUIT 82 

THE  LOT  OF  THE  INVENTOR 92 

AFTER  THE  PENITENTIARY     .       .       .       .     '  .  105 

SHORT   CHANGE 115 

PHYLLIS  THE  FEMINIST 125 

THE   MOLTING   OF   ALCIBIADES    .       .       .       .133 

THE  MEED  OF  A  BRUTE 145 

ON  LAND  AND  SEA 152 

THE  LYNCHING  IN  BASS  COUNTY       .       .        .  160 

IVAN  THE  TERRIBLE 173 

CARNEGIED 184 

SuH-Ho   IN    PRAISE  OF   FOOTBINDING       .       .  194 

THE  CHANCES  OF  BEING  MARRIED      .       .        .  202 

MY  UNCLE 212 

THE  FEAR  OF  GOD 218 

EVALINA            229 

OLD   SCORES 241 


2228972 


JOHN  STUYVESANT  ANCESTOR 


John   Stuyvesant   Ancestor 


"TTELLO  Central!  Hello,  hello!  Con- 
J~  M.  found  it !  Do  I  have  to  stand  here  while 
that  silly  girl  is  twiddling  her  thumbs?  Hello! 
Give  me  two- thirty.  No,  no,  can't  you  hear  me? 
Two-thirty,  two-three-o.  I  want  the  Charity 

Organization  Society Is  this  the  C.  O.  S.  ?   Is 

Mr.  Palgrave  there? —  Mr.  Palgrave,  this  is  Mr. 
Griffith, — Professor  Griffith.  I  want  you  to 
come  right  out  to  my  house. —  To  see  about  a 
baby. —  No,  no,  no,  I  don't  want  one.  There's 
one  here. —  Whose?  Of  course  I  don't  know. — 
How  old?  Just  a  new  one — a  day  old,  no,  a 
week  or  two.  You'll  be  right  out?"  Mr.  Grif- 
fith hung  up  the  receiver.  "  Confound  it,  any- 
way !  And  I've  got  so  much  work  to  do.  Such 
a  thing  happening  in  my  house."  He  turned 
almost  savagely  to  his  wife,  who  had  been  ob- 
serving him  with  an  amused  twinkle.  Instantly 
the  lady  assumed  an  air  of  fathomless  gravity. 

3 


John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor 


"  I've  called  up  Mr.  Palgrave  of  the  Charity 
Organization  Society.  He'll  be  here  directly." 

"  Yes,  I  heard.  Did  he  say  what  he  would  do 
about  it?" 

"  No,  but  of  course  he'll  take  it  away.  What 
else  is  there  to  do?  You  certainly  don't  intend 
to  keep  them?  Oh,  Matilda,  I'm  all  upset  about 
this.  I've  so  much  work  to  do,  and  here  this 
horrible  complication  comes  tumbling  down  on 
me.  I  don't  think  you  were  very  considerate, 
Matilda."  The  poor  little  man's  face  was  twitch- 
ing as  if  he  were  about  to  cry.  It  always  did 
when  he  was  overwrought,  and  the  boys  in 
school  had  a  theory  that  he  would  be  crying 
half  the  time  if  he  only  had  enough  juice  in  him 
to  keep  it  up. 

"  I'm  so  sorry,"  said  Matilda  penitently.  And 
she  was  really  sorry,  but  she  was  more  amused, 
and  inexplicably  excited.  It  was  with  difficulty 
she  maintained  her  habitual  air  of  subdued  se- 
renity. If  Mr.  Griffith  had  not  been  so  completely 
occupied  in  subjugating  his  own  emotions  he 
might  have  observed  that  her  eyes  were  shining 
and  her  cheeks  red  as  they  had  not  been  since 
their  courtship,  fifteen  years  ago.  It  would  have 
been  worth  Mr.  Griffith's  while  to  rest  his  eyes 


John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor 


on  Matilda.  He  would  have  been  struck  by  an 
unquiet  beauty  that  was  supposed  to  have  dis- 
appeared once  and  for  all  long  before  the  dial 
of  her  life  pointed  to  thirty-five.  But  Mr.  Griffith 
saw  nothing.  His  eyes  wandered  aimlessly  over 
the  floor  while  he  plucked  at  his  vest  button  and 
repeated,  "Confound  it!  Confound  it!"  under 
his  breath. 

It  is  to  be  admitted,  he  had  been  very  badly 
used.  The  wife  of  his  bosom,  from  whom  he  had 
never  withheld  a  single  one  of  his  thoughts — 
they  were  all  directed  to  the  science  and  art  of 
pedagogy — had  engineered  what  amounted  prac- 
tically to  a  monstrous  conspiracy  against  his 
peace  of  mind.  She  must  have  known  about  this 
dreadful  thing  for  months,  he  reflected  bitterly, 
and  never  a  hint  to  prepare  him.  He  had  al- 
ways held  to  the  doctrine  that  there  should  be 
the  utmost  frankness  between  husband  and  wife 
on  all  matters — an  arrangement  which  he  had 
assumed  with  the  customary  masculine  fatuous- 
ness would  bear  most  heavily  upon  the  husband. 
Matilda  had  apparently  accepted  the  general 
principle,  and  yet  she  had  stood  by  and  watched 
him  stumble  blindfold  right  into  the  morass  of 
the  Social  Problem,  a  morass  he  had  always 


John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor 


kept  as  far  from  him  as  possible,  both  on  account 
of  professional  expediency  and  on  account  of 
personal  squeamishness. 

Picture  to  yourself  the  most  orderly,  the  most 
painstaking  little  high  school  principal,  spare  of 
body,  angular  and  joyless  of  face,  with  hair  that 
would  have  long  since  turned  gray  if  it  had  not 
been  too  thin  for  time  to  bother  about.  Of 
course  you'd  expect  to  find  him  in  a  trim  little 
bungalow  on  the  edge  of  town,  most  probably 
in  his  library,  among  shelves  loaded  with  educa- 
tional treatises  scientifically  catalogued,  seated 
at  a  broad  oak  table  which  displays  the  latest 
educational  journals  and  all  manner  of  devices 
for  holding  notes  securely  and  keeping  them  in 
order.  His  meager  income  had  been  sufficient  to 
equip  the  rest  of  the  house  with  furniture  built 
on  approved  craftsman  lines  and  to  provide  the 
usual  prints  and  casts  supposed  to  be  educational 
and  uplifting.  All  this,  you  observe,  reflects  the 
schoolmaster's  taste,  or  rather  his  ethics.  Are 
we  to  suppose  that  Matilda,  who  is  at  any  rate 
capable  of  mischief  and  excitement,  has  no  taste 
at  all?  Where  is  her  influence  to  be  discerned? 
Nowhere.  Even  the  table  linen  exemplifies  a 
pedagogical  theory.  If  this  surprises  you,  you 


John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor 


simply  do  not  know  the  pervasive  quality  of  the 
true  schoolmasterly  tyranny.  In  the  early  years 
of  their  married  life  Matilda  had  made  various 
tentatives  toward  interference  in  the  household 
decorations.  She  had  been  brought  to  book — 
and  as  she  was  an  intelligent  woman,  she  had 
yielded  the  decorative  field  to  her  husband's  cor- 
rect if  dreary  rule. 

Even  the  most  unintellectual  elements  of  the 
domestic  life  had  been  ordered  systematically  by 
Mr.  Griffith.  It  was  his  choice  that  determined 
whether  the  maid  of  all  work  should  be  retained 
or  discharged.  For  several  years  his  policy  had 
been  experimental.  Finally  he  had  settled  down 
to  a  grim  visaged  creature,  Mosaic  law  inscribed 
on  tables  of  flint,  and  for  thirteen  years  had  kept 
down  the  chronic  rebellion  of  his  wife  against 
this  creature  sans  entrailles.  The  professor  was 
morally  certain  that  in  spite  of  her  temperamen- 
tal antipathy  to  the  servant,  Matilda  had  grown 
very  dependent  upon  her  and  would  recognize 
her  value  if  ever  there  were  danger  of  losing  her. 
Not  so;  Matilda  danced  with  joy  at  her  depar- 
ture and  the  installation  of  a  gentle,  brown-eyed 
creature  with  a  neck  like  the  swan's,  and  a  se- 
rene, wonderfully  modeled  face.  Many  a  time 


8  John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor 

I  sat  at  the  Griffiths'  dinner  table,  sunk  deep  in 
pedagogical  conversation,  and  glanced  up,  star- 
tled as  something  was  spilled  on  me,  to  behold 
the  pose  and  perfect  beauty  of  the  Aphrodite  of 
Melos.  She  was  wonderful,  and  she  always 
spilled  things.  As  Mr.  Griffith  very  quickly  sur- 
mised, she  was  a  moron. 

"  She  must  be  discharged,"  Mr.  Griffith  had 
said  at  the  end  of  the  first  week. 

"  No,"  Matilda  had  energetically  replied. 
"  She  is  the  loveliest  thing  I've  ever  seen.  I'm 
going  to  keep  her,  if  she  breaks  every  dish  in  the 
house  and  spills  hot  coffee  even  on  the  chairman 
of  the  school  board." 

For  the  first  time  Mr.  Griffith  had  been  forced 
to  yield.  Week  by  week  the  service  had  grown 
worse.  Kate,  the  moron  Aphrodite,  had  early  de- 
veloped a  detestable  habit  of  weeping  as  she 
served  the  meals,  and  this  habit  grew  on  her. 
At  last  her  health,  so  Matilda  had  explained,  had 
become  so  broken  as  to  necessitate  two  weeks' 
leave,  during  which  time  Matilda  had  cooked  and 
dusted  and  made  beds,  to  the  humiliation  of  Mr. 
Griffith,  who  considered  housework  far  beneath 
his  spouse  and  the  sharer  of  his  pedagogical  joys. 
Now  Kate  had  come  back,  but  oh,  heavens,  not 


John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor 


alone.  The  carriage  that  had  brought  her  had 
also  brought  a  bundle  done  up  in  shawls.  A 
baby!  O  tempora,  O  mores!  Mr.  Griffith  had 
never  even  suspected,  though  the  training  of  ob- 
servation bulked  large  in  his  pedagogic  theory. 
And  Matilda  hadn't  given  him  a  single  hint. 

"  I've  put  a  crib  in  her  room.  Do  come  and 
see  him,"  cried  Matilda,  bursting  into  the  study 
with  quite  unbridled  enthusiasm.  "  He's  already 
asleep,  and  oh,  he's  the  dearest  little  thing!  " 

Mr.  Griffith  scowled.  Still,  wasn't  it  his  duty 
to  look  at  the  baby  and  perhaps  question  the 
mother?  It  might  be  more  humane  than  to 
leave  her  to  the  official  catechizing  of  the 
C.  O.  S.  secretary. 

A  pink  little  head,  with  the  silkiest  brown  hair 
emerged  from  the  snow  of  Matilda's  best  linen. 
Two  wee  hands,  with  the  thinnest,  longest  fin- 
gers clenched,  the  skin  loose  about  the  knuckles, 
rested  against  the  baby's  tiny  ears.  Beside  the 
crib  sat  Kate,  gentle  brown-eyed  Aphrodite,  her 
face  veiled  with  an  expression  of  timid  pride. 
Have  you  ever  observed  how  a  petted  young 
cow  behaves  as  you  stroke  the  bobbing,  curly 
head  of  her  first  new-born  calf?  She  is  proud, 
and  nervous,  and  happy,  and  overcome  with 


IO  John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor 

wonder,  all  of  which  she  expresses  in  one  gen- 
tle "  Moo."  Well,  as  Mr.  Griffith  touched  the 
little  silky  head,  Kate  all  but  said  "Moo." 
"  Sweet,  silly  creature,  how  lovely  you  look," 
thought  Matilda. 

"  Nice  baby,"  said  Mr.  Griffith.  "  What  are 
you  going  to  name  him?" 

"  His  name  is  John  Stuyvesant,"  said  Kate 
with  sweet  finality. 

"John  Stuyvesant?"  queried  Mr.  Griffith. 
Then  he  added  craftily, 

"I  don't  suppose  that  is  his  father's  name?" 

"  It's  such  a  pretty  name,  don't  you  think  so, 
Mrs.  Griffith?  And  it  may  be  his  father's  name. 
Those  awful  boys  never  tell  you  their  right 
names." 

"  Those  boys !  "  Oh,  the  ignominy,  and  un- 
der his  own  sacred  roof!  Mr.  Griffith  retired 
bitterly  to  his  study.  He  hoped  the  C.  O.  S. 
secretary  wouldn't  be  long  in  coming. 

Mr.  Palgrave,  the  Charity  Organization  secre- 
tary, or  more  properly,  the  Charity  Organiza- 
tion itself,  was  a  very  tall,  very  bony  man,  bald, 
colorless,  sharp-eyed.  He  was  not  a  man  to 
waste  words  and  Mr.  Griffith's  account  merely 
elicited  from  time  to  time  a  sibilant  "  Yes,  yes." 


John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor  II 

"  How  long  has  she  been  in  your  house?  "  de- 
manded Mr.  Palgrave  with  a  keen  look  that 
made  Mr.  Griffith  first  shudder  and  then  blush 
under  his  sallow  skin. 

"  Why,  why —  Mr.  Palgrave,  you're  not  cast- 
ing suspicion  at — at  me?  You  know  my  position 
and — and  my  character." 

"Just  a  routine  question.  But  so  far  as  that's 
concerned,  a  man  in  my  job  doesn't  take  much 
stock  in  moral  alibis."  He  eyed  Mr.  Griffith 
still  more  keenly.  "  None  of  my  business, 
though."  Mr.  Griffith  blushed  still  more  furi- 
ously. This  was  indeed  degradation  beyond  his 
depth ! 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Palgrave  in  a  tone  of  every- 
day business,  "  what  do  you  want  me  to  do?  " 

"  Take  them  away,"  cried  Mr.  Griffith. 

"  I  can't  do  that.  Of  course,  if  you  kick  them 
out  and  they're  starving,  the  C.  O.  S.  will  be 
bound  to  do  something  for  them.  But  with  your 

character  and  position  " Mr.  Palgrave  eyed 

Mr.  Griffith  again  piercingly. 

Mr.  Griffith  said  nothing.  Peace  was  dead. 
Honor  was  gone.  The  values  of  life  were  ex- 
tinct. 

The  door  flew  open  and  Matilda  entered,  girl- 


12  John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor 

ish  and  rosy,  her  eyes  shining,  with  a  bundle  of 
lace-trimmed  linen  squeezed  tight  against  her 
breast.  Following  her  came  gentle  Kate,  still 
almost  saying  "  Moo." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Palgrave,  did  you  ever  see  a  sweeter 
little  thing?  " 

Mr.  Palgrave's  face  lighted  up,  like  a  rocky 
hillside  field  under  a  burst  of  November  sun. 

"  Pretty  baby,"  he  said  judiciously.  "  What 
do  you  want  me  to  do  with  it?  "  he  added  in  an 
undertone,  with  a  cautious  glance  at  Kate. 

"  Oh,  we're  going  to  keep  him,  forever,"  said 
Matilda  with  determination. 

"  Ah-h-h-h-h-h,"  breathed  a  little  voice  from 
the  bundle. 

"  Oh,  we  must  put  him  back,"  cried  Matilda, 
turning  to  Kate  in  consternation. 

"  Well,  Professor  Griffith,  I  must  be  going," 
said  Mr.  Palgrave,  as  the  door  closed  upon  the 
baby  and  its  devotees.  "  If  I  can  do  anything, 
why,  call  on  me.  I  guess  the  moral  alibi  must 
be  all  right,  after  all.  Good-by." 

Mr.  Griffith  sank  into  a  chair,  miserably.  He 
had  first  been  duped,  and  now  he  had  been  sus- 
pected. For  one  who  had  led  so  exemplary  a 
life,  could  humiliation  be  deeper?  Matilda 


John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor  13 

glided  into  the  room  and  threw  her  arm  round 
his  neck — a  most  novel  and  disquieting  gesture. 

"  Matilda,"  he  said  inconsolably.  "  I  have 
been  deeply  humiliated.  Your  harboring  of  this 
creature  has  thrust  a  terrible  injustice  upon  me. 
I  have  been  made  the  subject  of  a  monstrous 
suspicion.  I  have  been  suspected  of  being — of 
being  the  author " 

"You,  Harold?  Oh,  how  absurd !"  And  Ma- 
tilda ended  with  a  little  peal  of  laughter.  For 
years  she  hadn't  laughed  like  this.  And  as  she 
ran  away,  Mr.  Griffith's  anger  at  her  flippancy 
began  to  give  way  to  the  most  inexplicable  sense 
of  shame.  Why  it  was  he  did  not  know,  neither 
do  you,  nor  I.  But  as  he  strode  to  and  fro  and 
happened  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  himself  in  the 
glass  over  his  desk,  he  discovered  that  his  face, 
from  pointed  chin  to  the  retreating  roots  of  his 
sparse  hair,  was  red  as  a  cock's  comb. 


II 

THE  Griffith's  home  was  the  accepted  ren- 
dezvous of  the  Friday  Evening  Circle,  an 
organization  anciently  intended  to  circulate  from 
house  to  house,  which  had  assumed  a  fixed  habi- 
tat, partly  because  Mr.  Griffith  was  the  town's 
most  tireless  seeker  after  ultimate  truth,  partly 
because  everybody  else  found  his  own  brilliancy 
enhanced  under  the  sympathetic  hostess-ship  of 
Mrs.  Griffith.  The  object  of  the  Circle  was  to 
promote  philosophical  thinking  as  a  corrective 
of  the  narrowing  tendency  of  too  much  high 
school  teaching.  In  the  dark  ages  around  the 
end  of  the  last  century,  the  Circle  had  studied 
Browning,  under  the  illusion  that  he  was  a  deep 
philosopher.  From  Browning  they  had  ad- 
vanced to  Herbert  Spencer,  William  James  and 
Bergson.  Then  they  had  retrograded  to  Rabin- 
dranath  Tagore,  and  still  further  to  the  sociolo- 
gists. Now,  last  stage  of  all,  they  were  immersed 
in  the  study  of  eugenics.  Of  all  the  subjects  they 
had  pursued,  eugenics  most  profoundly  gripped 
them.  Especially  the  horrors  of  the  Jukes,  the 
tribes  of  Ishmael,  the  Kallikaks  and  their  kind 

14 


John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor  15 

multiplying  beyond  the  normal  rate  of  mankind. 
The  Circle  trembled  for  the  coming  generations, 
in  which,  by  the  way,  its  vital  stake  was  of  the 
most  tenuous  and  altruistic. 

Of  the  dozen  or  more  segments  of  this  Circle, 
the  most  studied  hard,  said  little,  and  attended 
to  the  proceedings  with  knit  brows  and  eager, 
weary  eyes.  That  is  all  I  know  of  them,  as  I 
was  extremely  irregular  in  my  attendance.  One 
who  stood  out  slightly  from  the  group  was  Mr. 
Benson,  who  taught  French  in  the  high  school 
and  affected  shrugging  shoulders  and  pointed 
wit.  Another  was  Miss  Platt,  teacher  of  mathe- 
matics and  physics,  veteran  of  over  a  score  of 
Commencements.  Her  tawny  hair  always  ap- 
peared somewhat  unkempt  and  her  severe  gar- 
ments were  rebellious  to  any  conceivable  style. 
She  had  kindly  wrinkles  about  her  eyes  and 
mouth,  a  pertinacious  chin  and  conscientious 
brow.  She  evidently  suffered  agonies  under  the 
eugenics  debate;  too  many  things  relating  to 
the  origin  and  destiny  of  the  unfit  must  be 
spoken  of  plainly  to  accord  with  the  happiness 
of  a  lady  brought  up  among  all  the  reticences 
of  a  small  provincial  city.  But  Miss  Platt  was 
not  a  person  to  shirk  her  plain  duty,  and  she 


i6  John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor 

went  through  the  eugenics  reports  like  a  band- 
saw  ripping  through  a  log,  knots  and  all.  I  end 
this  catalogue  with  Gustav  Kieselbacher,  enor- 
mous, with  sandy  hair  and  red  bristly  beard, 
wide  eyes  and  brow  like  a  cliff.  Gustav  taught 
German,  real  German,  sinewy,  striding,  crested 
with  Pickelhauben,  with  overtones  of  Shreck- 
lichkeit  and  undertones  of  Wehmut  and  Friih- 
lingswehen.  Of  course  that  was  a  scandal  to 
some  while  the  war  was  on,  but  the  city  was 
too  purely  American  to  fall  into  a  panic  over  the 
German  language  question.  Gustav  was  a 
teacher  who  got  results.  At  his  first  roar  the 
class  surrendered  at  discretion,  and  not  a  student 
ever  recovered  fully  from  his  initial  fright.  "  At 
leasd,"  Gustav  would  growl  complacently, 
"  dhey  learn  to  bronounse  my  name  corr-r-ectly." 

Great  was  the  excitement  in  the  circle  when 
Mr.  Griffith  announced,  one  evening,  that 
there  was  a  high  grade  moron  in  his  own 
kitchen. 

"  Do  bring  her  in  !  "  cried  the  guests  in  chorus. 
"  It  will  be  so  instructive  to  put  her  through  the 
tests." 

"Oh  no,  Harold,"  pleaded  Mrs.  Griffith. 
"The  poor  thing  will  be  frightened  to  death." 


John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor  17 

"  Nonsense,  Matilda.  She  won't  understand 
what  we're  driving  at.  Shall  I  call  her?  " 

Mrs.  Griffith  rose.  "  I  don't  think  it's  fair. 
But  promise  me  you  won't  do  anything  to  em- 
barrass her." 

Kate  had  just  finished  the  dishes  and  was 
leaning  over  a  clothes  basket  supported  on  two 
chairs,  where  little  John  Stuyvesant  was  sleeping. 

"  Kate,"  said  Mrs.  Griffith,  "  our  guests  are 
playing  a  sort  of  game,  and  it  is  important  to 
have  somebody  who  doesn't  know  anything 
about  it,  to  answer  a  lot  of  questions.  It's  just 
a  part  of  the  game,  you  see.  We'd  like  to  have 
you  come  in." 

"  Oh  dear,  I  can't  go  in,  in  this  horrid  old 
dress,"  objected  Kate  nervously. 

"  Well,  just  bring  baby  along,  and  they  won't 
even  see  your  dress." 

A  smile  of  enlightenment  broke  over  Kate's 
face.  "  Oh !  They  don't  care  a  bit  to  see  me — 
they  want  a  look  at  John  Stuyvesant."  Kate 
cautiously  put  back  the  covers  of  the  basket  and 
took  the  wee  sleeper  into  her  arms.  Little  John 
opened  wide  his  dark  eyes,  yawned  vigorously, 
and  slipped  back  into  his  slumbers.  Kate  fol- 
lowed her  mistress  into  the  living-room  and  con- 


18  John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor 

fronted  the  guests  with  a  face  glowing  with  com- 
placent embarrassment. 

"  Sit  here,  Kate,"  commanded  Mr.  Griffith. 
And  in  a  tone  intended  for  an  aside,  "  We'll  test 
her  for  age  eight. — Now,  Kate,  what  is  the  dif- 
ference between  a  fly  and  a  butterfly?  " 

"  Why,  goodness,  Mr.  Griffith,  they  ain't  a 
bit  alike." 

"Yes,  but  how  do  they  differ?"  insisted  Mr. 
Griffith. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  you  want  me  to 
say,"  Kate  replied,  bewildered. 

Mr.  Griffith  exchanged  significant  glances  with 
Miss  Platt. 

"  Kate,  will  you  begin  with  twenty  and  count 
backward  to  naught?  " 

"Naught?     I  don't  know  what  that  is." 

"  Well,  then  to  one." 

"  One,  two,  three,  four " 

"  No,  no ! "  cried  Mr.  Griffith  impatiently. 
"  Begin  with  twenty." 

"  Twenty,  twenty-one,  twenty-two " 

"No,  no!  not  that  way  at  all!"  shouted  Mr. 
Griffith.  Kate's  frightened  eyes  sought  refuge 
in  Mrs.  Griffith's. 

"  Try  the  pictures,  Harold,"  suggested  Mrs. 


John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor  19 

Griffith  firmly.  "  Now  Kate,  take  a  good  look  at 
these  pictures  and  tell  us  what  you  think  of 
them."  She  bent  over  Kate's  chair  and  held  be- 
fore her  four  drawings,  one  of  a  face  without 
nose,  another  lacking  mouth,  another  eyes,  and 
the  fourth,  of  a  figure  without  arms.  "  Now, 
what  do  you  think  of  them?  " 

"  I  don't  think  they  are  very  pretty,  do  you?  " 
Kate  looked  up  at  her  mistress  with  a  smile  of 
amusement. 

"What's  wrong  with  them?"  demanded  Mr. 
Griffith. 

Kate  knitted  her  brow.  "  Well,  they  look  like 
dagoes." 

Mr.  Griffith  pointed  with  his  pencil  at  the 
noseless  face.  "  Did  you  ever  know  a  person 
who  looked  like  that?  "  he  asked  in  an  even,  ir- 
ritated voice. 

"  N-no,"  stammered  Kate,  again  taking 
fright.  "  He  kind  of  favors  Uncle  Joe  Black. 
Is  that  who  you  mean?  " 

"  Good  God!  "  ejaculated  Mr.  Griffith.  "  Well, 
we'll  test  for  age  six." 

"No,  Harold,"  said  Mrs.  Griffith.  "You'd 
bewilder  anyone  with  those  foolish  questions. 
Try  age  twelve." 


2O  John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor 

"And  batience,  batience,  and  still  batience!" 
roared  Gustav  with  kindly  intent  but  terrifying 
result.  Kate  shuddered  and  turned  a  frightened 
face  toward  Gustav's  colossal,  heaving  form. 

"  Now,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Griffith  soothingly, 
"  tell  us  the  names  of  as  many  things  as  you  can 
think  of  while  Mr.  Griffith  looks  at  his  watch." 

Kate  contracted  her  brows.  "  Bread,  butter, 
peas,  coal,  dresses,  things,  butter,  dresses,  peas — 
Well,  you  know,  Mrs.  Griffith,  I  never  went  to 
high  school " 

"  Of  course  you  didn't,"  snorted  Mr.  Griffith, 
"  but  is  that  any  reason  why  you  shouldn't  have 
more  than  six  words  in  your  head?  " 

Kate's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Mrs.  Griffith 
glanced  indignantly  at  her  husband.  "  You  are 
forgetting  what  we  are  trying  to  do,  Harold. 
This  isn't  an  entrance  examination." 

"That's  true,"  admitted  Mr.  Griffith  apolo- 
getically. "  Kate,  will  you  please  define  justice? 
Tell  us  what  justice  means?" 

"  I  can't,"  sighed  Kate.  The  tears  were  trick- 
ling over  her  cheeks.  "  I  ain't  getting  justice. 
Oh,  Mrs.  Griffith,  why  are  they  poking  all  those 
questions  at  me?  I  ain't  done  nothing." 

"  It  was  only  part  of  the  game,"  said  Maltida. 


John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor  21 

"  You  answered  just  what  we  wanted,  dear,  just 
what  the  game  needed.  Come,  now,  we  must 
carry  little  John  to  his  crib." 

And  as  Mrs.  Griffith  drew  the  door  to,  shutting 
out  the  hostile  audience,  Kate  sobbed  bitterly, 
"  And  not  one  of  them  even  looked  at  John 
Stuyvesant." 

When  Matilda  returned  Mr.  Griffith  was  lec- 
turing earnestly.  "  From  one  single  defective, 
Martin  Kallikak,  Jr.,  the  state  has  been  cursed 
with  480  descendants,  of  whom  143  were  feeble- 
minded, many  were  immoral,  many  drunkards 
and  some  criminals.  The  descendants  of  Ada 
Juke  have  cost  the  state  a  million  and  a  quarter 
in  the  course  of  a  century.  That  is  what  makes 
this  girl  and  her  child  such  a  serious  problem. 
The  girl  is  not  really  bad,  but  you  can't  say  but 
her  child  will  contribute  to  the  state  just  such 
another  chain  of  imbecility,  pauperism,  crime, 
immorality.  It  will  be  a  mercy  if  he  does  not 
grow  up." 

Gustav  stole  a  shrewd  glance  at  Matilda,  who 
was  standing  erect,  her  cheeks  very  red,  her  eyes 
flashing. 

"  Ja,  ja,"  he  grunted.  "  Dhe  trouble  vidth  us 
Americans  is,  ve  don'd  keep  our  science  and  our 


22  John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor 

life  separate.  Now,  as  a  scientist  I  vould  haf 
dhe  unfit  rooted  out.  I  vould  show  no  mercy. 
I  vould  haf  only  big,  strong,  healthy  men — ja, 
ja,  vidh  stiff,  red  beards  and  broad,  homely,  hon- 
est faces,  yust  like  me.  Dhat  is  science.  But, 
Gott  sei  Dank,  I  am  not  dhe  Divine  Providence. 
What  for  a  life  it  vould  be,  all  dhe  men  like  me 
and  dhe  ladies  to  correspond !  Dhat  girl  and  her 
baby  are  all  wrong,  from  dhe  scientific  stand- 
point. But  from  dhe  standpoint  of  life  viewed, 
she  is  beaudiful  and  dhe  baby  is  beaudiful  and 
dhey  are  happy  and  dhere  is  sun  enough  for  all." 

"  That  is  to  abdicate  reason  altogether,"  ex- 
postulated Mr.  Griffith.  "  Your  doctrine  is  not 
only  fallacious,  it  is  pernicious.  You  confound 
action  by  advancing  at  the  same  time  the  most 
contradictory  principles." 

"  Ja,  ja,"  growled  Gustav,  the  joy  of  argument 
upon  him.  "  For  vy  I  haf  dhis  gread,  broad  Ger- 
man brain,"  (and  he  beat  his  brow  with  his  huge 
fist)  "  if  I  am  not  to  harbor  contradictions,  many 
of  dhem?  Dhe  frog  has  very  little  brain :  he  has 
no  contradictions — he  goes  straight  to  his  pud- 
dle. Dhe  Australian  black  has  small  brain:  he 
has  no  contradictions — he  goes  vhere  his  nose 
leads  him,  looking  neidher  to  right  nor  to  left, 


John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor  23 

to  vhere  dhe  Walfisch  lies  stranded.  Vidh  my 
colossal  brain  I  see  things  double :  science  and 
life." 

Professor  Griffith  resumed  his  lecture.  "  Of 
course  we  do  not  know  whether  feeble-minded- 
ness  is  a  unit  character.  It  is  not  certain  that 
the  child  may  not  turn  out  normal.  We  know 
nothing  at  all  of  his  ancestry  beyond  the  traits 
of  his  mother." 

The  French  teacher  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Was  it  not  Napoleon  who  said :  Moi,  je 
sws  ancetref  What's  the  little  chap's  name? 
Oh  yes;  John  Stuyvesant,  John  Stuyvesant,  An- 
cestor." 

Wretched  flippancy,  it  fell  flat,  as  it  deserved. 
But  it  was  the  one  thing  that  poor  Kate,  listen- 
ing at  the  door  to  the  storm  of  words,  could  un- 
derstand. She  had  already  made  up  her  mind 
that  little  John  ought  to  have  a  third  name,  and 
Ancestor  sounded  very  well.  Henceforth  so  she 
called  him,  despite  all  the  protests  from  Matilda 
who,  although  she  had  become  a  foe  of  the 
science  of  eugenics,  felt  an  obscure  curse  inher- 
ent in  the  name,  John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor. 


Ill 

IF  Mr.  Griffith  had  cherished  any  hope  that 
Kate  and  little  John,  with  the  succession  of 
Jukes  or  Kallikaks  potential  in  them  would  re- 
move themselves  from  under  the  shelter  of  his 
uneasy  responsibility,  disillusionment  was  to  be 
his  lot.  Kate  was  extremely  contented,  having 
abdicated  most  of  her  household  duties  to  Ma- 
tilda, now  a  convert  to  the  doctrine,  despised  by 
her  husband,  that  housework  is  an  entertaining 
and  instructive  game,  after  all.  Kate  spent  most 
of  her  waking  hours  in  a  rocking-chair,  smiling 
upon  little  John,  who  early  learned  to  repay 
smiles  two  for  one.  John  was  a  good  baby, 
never  crying  except  with  reason,  and  seldom 
having  reason  to  cry.  And  this  was  a  mercy  to 
Mr.  Griffith,  who  had  never  succeeded  in  getting 
the  baby  off  his  nerves.  To  be  sure,  Mr.  Griffith 
gave  John  no  credit  for  his  good  nature.  This 
and  other  little  unexpected  traits  led  Mr.  Grif- 
fith to  conclude  that  John  was  not  like  other 
babies — there  was,  in  his  opinion,  something 
very  ominous  in  this  fact  of  unlikeness.  He  was 
of  course  right  in  regarding  little  John  as  in  a 

24 


John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor  25 

way  unique  among  babies.  Every  baby  is  unique 
if  you  come  to  know  it  well.  Only  adults  are 
alike,  standardized  by  the  pressure  of  social  life. 
When  John  Stuyvesant  entered  upon  the 
creeping  stage  Kate's  life  became  less  satisfac- 
tory. She  was  born  to  sit  quietly  smiling,  look- 
ing beautiful,  and  not  really  much  more  sentient 
than  a  sunbeam.  The  baby's  restless  excursions 
to  far  corners  and  through  open  doors  disturbed 
her  peace.  After  futile  efforts  to  restore  John 
to  the  habit  of  lying  still  and  bartering  smiles, 
she  half  gave  him  up.  More  and  more  the  care 
of  little  John  devolved,  along  with  the  house- 
work, upon  Matilda.  Soon  it  was  for  Matilda 
that  John  reserved  his  sunniest  smiles;  and  it 
was  Matilda  who  was  first  honored  with  the 
title  "  Mam-ma."  Kate  the  beautiful  rocked 
herself  into  somnolence,  sighing  softly  from  time 
to  time — while  little  John  crawled  tirelessly  after 
Matilda  as  she  prepared  the  meals  or  set  the 
house  in  order.  As  he  grew  stronger  in  body 
and  will  he  would  pull  himself  up  by  a  chair,  to 
reach  resolutely  for  the  glasses  on  the  table  or 
the  flower  pots  in  the  window.  "  No,  no,  John," 
Matilda  would  say  reprovingly.  Whereupon  he 
would  drop  his  dimpled  chin  on  his  breast  and 


26  John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor 

wail  heartbrokenly,  until  Matilda  would  soothe 
his  soul  with  a  kiss. 

John  was  docile,  and  once  denied  a  desirable 
object,  he  would  never  touch  it  again.  He  still 
desired  it  and  would  kneel  before  it  wistfully, 
his  eyes  glowing,  his  tiny  fingers  opening  and 
closing,  the  sweetest  picture  of  resisted  tempta- 
tion in  the  world. 

Thanksgiving  was  at  hand,  and  the  high  school 
had  to  be  decorated  for  an  appropriate  masque. 
All  morning  the  teachers  had  worked  hard,  es- 
pecially Gustav,  whose  enthusiasm  for  "  our  Pil- 
grim forefadhers "  was  almost  pathetically  lu- 
dicrous. Matilda  had  been  pressed  into  service, 
but  proved  less  helpful  and  suggestive  than  in 
other  years.  All  she  wanted  was  to  get  through 
as  quickly  as  possible,  whether  the  Thanksgiving 
spirit  were  properly  expressed  or  not.  The  day 
was  bleak,  and  Matilda  could  not  be  sure  that 
Kate  would  keep  the  house  warm  enough  for 
little  John.  Kate  was  not  sufficiently  sensitive 
to  changes  in  temperature  to  keep  herself  com- 
fortable; John  might  freeze  without  exciting  her 
attention,  or  at  least  without  arousing  her  to  ef- 
fort. 

At  last  the  work  was  done,  and  Gustav  insisted 


John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor  .27 

on  conveying  Mr.  Griffith  and  Matilda  to  their 
door  in  his  car.  The  distance  was  not  great,  but 
Gustav's  car  was  new  and  had  to  be  admired. 
Whatever  speed  laws  there  were  in  town  Gustav 
violated,  and  in  a  twinkling  the  three  were  in- 
side the  Griffiths'  door.  The  house  was  cold,  in 
fact,  and  Matilda  ran  anxiously  to  the  kitchen. 
In  a  moment  she  returned,  pale  and  tearful, 
crumpling  a  scrap  of  paper  in  her  fingers. 

"  They're  gone  !  "  she  said  despairingly. 

"Gone?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Griffith,  suppressing 
an  impulse  to  cheer. 

"  Yes,  look  at  this  note.  I  shouldn't  have 
left  the  house  this  morning." 

Mr.  Griffith  read :  "  Dear  Mrs.  Gruffus.  Im 
goin  home.  Im  sorry  to  leve  you  fokes.  Im  not 
feelin  very  wel.  I  guess  Im  not  strong  enuf  for 
housewurk.  Im  all  broke  down 

Yrs.  truly  Kate  " 

Mr.  Griffith  chuckled.  "  Poor  thing,  all  broke 
down.  Why,  Gustav,  she  hasn't  done  a  thing 
for  months.  She's  too  lazy  even  to  look  after 
her  own  baby." 

Matilda  was  crying  softly.  "  Poor  little  John. 
Whatever  will  become  of  him?  I'm  just  sure 
that  girl  will  let  him  die.  My  own  baby  John." 


28  John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor 

Gustav's  face  was  working  with  emotion. 
"  Vhere  iss  her  home?  Maybe  I  get  her  for  you 
again?  " 

Mr.  Griffith  shook  his  head  violently. 

"Oh,  Gustav,  do  you  think  you  could?" 
pleaded  Matilda.  "  She  used  to  live  at  Vinton, 
and  I  suppose  that's  where  she's  gone." 

"Vinton?  Ja,  ja.  Sixty  miles  around  by  dhe 
railroad,  twenty  miles  over  dhe  hills.  I  meet 
her  at  dhe  train." 

"  But  Gustav,"  protested  Mr.  Griffith,  pursu- 
ing him  to  the  car.  "  Gustav !  " 

Gustav  heard  nothing,  amid  the  sharp  ex- 
plosions of  his  machine.  Mr.  Griffith  shouted 
angrily,  but  to  no  avail.  Gustav's  car  was  plung- 
ing down  the  slope,  a  tail  of  black  smoke  from 
the  exhaust  lengthening  out  behind  it. 

The  afternoon  was  graying  toward  nightfall. 
Matilda  was  seated  at  the  window,  looking  anx- 
iously down  the  street,  while  Mr.  Griffith  paced 
the  floor  with  quick,  irritated  steps. 

"  At  last ! "  cried  Matilda,  springing  up. 
"  And  he's  got  them !  " 

"Confound  it!"  ejaculated  her  husband. 
"  Put  on  your  coat,  anyway.  It's  no  use  tak- 
ing cold,  into  the  bargain." 


John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor  29 

Matilda  flew  down  the  walk,  her  husband  fol- 
lowing, grumbling  in  an  undertone. 

"  Heisa,  Jucche!"  shouted  Gustav,  bumping 
his  wheel  against  the  curve.  "  Home  again !  " 
He  sprang  out  and  threw  open  the  door  for  Kate, 
who  descended  wearily,  holding  little  John  to 
her  breast.  Matilda  snatched  the  baby  from 
Kate's  arms  and  scrutinized  his  rosy  face  anx- 
iously to  see  if  he  had  taken  harm.  He  smiled 
divinely. 

"You're  coming  in,  Gustav?"  asked  Matilda. 
And  then  she  observed  that  Kate  was  gazing 
into  Gustav's  face  with  an  expression  of  settled 
despair.  Gustav  was  visibly  embarrassed. 

"You're  coming  in,  Gustav?"  repeated  Ma- 
tilda. 

Gustav  started.  "  No,  I  must  to  my  home. 
You  vill  understand,  Mrs.  Griffith,  sometimes 
misinterpretations  arise,  most  innocently  on 
both  sides?" 

"  What  on  earth  do  you  mean,  Gustav?  " 

"  I  can't  explain  yust  now,"  replied  Gustav, 
mounting  to  his  seat.  "  Au  revoir,  friends." 

Matilda  was  deeply  perplexed,  but  in  a  mo- 
ment she  had  forgotten  Gustav  and  everything 
else  except  little  John,  soft  and  warm  against 


30  John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor 

her  breast.  Kate  was  following  at  her  elbow, 
but  she  never  thought  of  Kate  either  until  she 
was  aroused  to  Kate's  existence  by  a  burst  of 
sobs. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Griffith,"  wept  Kate,  "  I  just  can't 
marry  that  awful  Dutchman." 

"  Marry  him !  "  exclaimed  Matilda,  "  is  he  pro- 
posing to  marry  you?" 

"  Yes,  of  course.  He  didn't  exactly  say  it,  but 
can't  I  see?"  Kate  smiled  knowingly.  "All 
those  Dutchmen  are  marrying  men.  And  what 
did  he  come  after  me  for?" 

"  I  wouldn't  worry,  dear,"  said  Matilda  laugh- 
ing. 

"  If  he  didn't  have  such  an  awful  name.  I 
told  him  I  couldn't  marry  a  man  with  an  awful 
name  like  Kieselbacher.  I  said  he  could  change 
his  name.  Don't  you  think  Orlando  Lavelle  is 
a  pretty  name?  " 

"  Yes,"  laughed  Matilda.  "  What  did  Gustav 
think  of  it?" 

Kate  resumed  her  weeping.  "  He  said  he 
wouldn't  change  his  name  to  marry  a  princess. 
He  said  if  I  married  him  he  would  always  call 
me  Katereeny  Kieselbacher.  Till  I  died.  Isn't 
he  horrid?" 


John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor  31 

"  Yes,"  agreed  Matilda,  choking  down  her 
laughter.  Gustav's  cryptic  words  about  "  mis- 
interpretations "  were  clear  enough  now. 

The  next  day,  Kate  wept  every  time  the  door 
bell  rang,  certain  that  that  awful  Dutchman  had 
come  to  torment  her.  But  Gustav  did  not  come 
that  day,  nor  the  next.  On  the  third  day,  he 
appeared,  very  constrained  in  manner,  as  one 
who  has  an  important  explanation  to  make.  Ma- 
tilda meant  to  be  polite,  but  it  was  impossible 
for  her  to  contain  her  merriment. 

"  Well,  Gustav,  she's  run  away  again.  And 
it's  all  your  fault." 

"  So-so?  "  exclaimed  Gustav  in  a  tone  of  con- 
sternation. 

"  But  she  left  little  John.  He's  mine  now  for 
keeps." 

"  Ja-ja."     Gustav's  face  brightened. 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  condole  with  you,  Gus- 
tav." 

"  Condole?  "    Gustav  blushed. 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  feel  worried  about  that 
poor  girl.  But  I  don't." 

"  Dhe  awful  egoism  of  dhe  female.  You  haf 
her  baby,  vhat  you  care  for  dhe  sorrowing 
mother?" 


32  John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor 

"  Not  a  bit.  Besides,  she  isn't  sorrowing. 
Her  parting  from  little  John  she  will  recall  as 
just  a  sweet  tragedy.  This  escape  is  a  wonderful 
adventure  to  her." 

"Escape?"     Gustav  lifted  his  shaggy  brows. 

"  Yes,  escape  from  you."  Matilda  laughed 
joyously.  "  Here's  her  letter."  Gustav  read, 
scowling  fiercely. 

"  Dere  Mrs.  Griffus.  Im  goin  away  this  time 
wher  that  oful  man  cant  find  me.  I  must  say 
farwel  to  my  deer  littl  John  Stivesant  Anstor. 
He  loves  you  moren  me.  He  does  not  no  what 
his  poor  mother  has  suferd  for  him.  Be  kind 
and  good  to  him  and  hevon  will  reward  you.  I 
couldn't  marry  him.  My  poor  mother  wud  turn 
over  in  her  grave  if  she  new  I  married  a  forener. 
We  are  all  an  old  American  famly.  We  came 
over  in  a  ship  I  ferget  its  name.  We  dont  go 
much  by  foreners.  He  has  such  an  oful  name. 
Id  die  ruthern  be  called  Catereeny  Kezulbocker. 
"yrs  truly  Kate." 

"Ja-ja,"  growled  Gustav.  "As  a  yung  Loch- 
invar,  I  am  a  gross  und  dismal  failure.  But " — 
and  he  grinned  grotesquely —  "  Mr.  Griffith  vill 
be  so  pleased!  Ve  haf  safed  little  John  Stuy- 
vesant Ancestor." 


IV 

THE  disappearance  of  one  familiar  face 
seemed  not  greatly  to  disturb  little  John, 
even  though  the  face  was  that  of  his  natural 
mother.  Mr.  Griffith  looked  the  matter  up  in 
the  books,  and  found  that  obtuseness  to  the 
claims  of  the  blood  is  characteristic  of  certain 
strains  of  defectiveness.  Dire  are  the  conse- 
quences, too,  at  times.  But  Matilda  would  have 
none  of  this  discovery.  Kate  was  by  nature  a 
good  mother  to  a  very  little  baby,  but  incapable 
of  persisting  in  her  devotion  to  a  baby  who 
wouldn't  lie  still.  The  natural  relation  had  been 
broken,  not  by  John,  but  by  his  mother.  There- 
fore nothing  could  be  inferred  as  to  John's  char- 
acter from  the  fact  that  he  remained  cheerful 
under  his  bereavement.  Besides,  John  was  too 
much  occupied  to  find  time  to  brood.  He  was 
just  learning  the  two  fascinating  arts  of  talking 
and  walking.  Upon  awaking  in  the  morning  he 
would  lie  still,  patiently  exploring  the  capacity 
of  his  tongue  and  lips  to  shape  new  sounds. 
Dressed  and  fed,  he  would  get  himself  balanced 

33 


34  John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor 

on  his  wobbly  little  legs,  and  make  a  brave  ef- 
fort to  walk  across  the  room.  Many  and  mighty 
were  the  falls  he  experienced,  but  beyond  a  little 
"  Huh !  "  these  drew  no  expression  of  annoyance 
from  him.  Soon  he  came  to  regard  a  tumble  as 
a  great  joke,  and  prostrate,  would  wriggle  his 
head  around  so  that  he  could  exchange  a  smile 
with  Matilda.  A  droll  little  head  it  was,  with 
only  a  thin  brown  fuzz  from  the  back  of  his 
neck  to  his  crown  and  from  his  crown  to  his 
forehead  a  narrow  strip  of  long  hair  falling  in 
thick  ringlets  on  either  side. 

In  the  fond  hope  that  Matilda  might  be  re- 
lieved from  her  slavery  to  John,  Mr.  Griffith  had 
installed  in  the  house  a  maid  of  uncertain  dis- 
position but  fully  guaranteed  competence,  said 
to  be  an  adept  at  winning  the  confidence  of  chil- 
dren. This  paragon  John  politely  ignored.  If 
her  advances  became  too  insistent,  he  would 
gently  struggle  to  withdraw  himself,  appealing 
to  Matilda  for  succor  with  his  eloquent  brown 
eyes.  If  Matilda  left  John  alone  in  the  house 
with  the  competent  Anna,  he  would  climb  upon 
a  settee  by  the  window,  where  he  could  com- 
mand a  view  of  the  approach  to  the  house,  and 
wait  with  the  infinite  patience  of  babyhood  for 


John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor  35 

Matilda's  return.  The  wistful  little  face  peer- 
ing through  the  window  almost  moved  Matilda 
to  tears,  and  each  time  she  resolved  she  would 
never  again  desert  her  charge.  Mr.  Griffith 
fumed  about  the  little  parasite  who  might  just 
as  well  have  made  up  to  Anna  so  as  to  leave  a 
little  freedom  to  Matilda.  As  for  Matilda,  she 
was  quite  content.  A  baby's  preference  is  after 
all  the  most  seductive  flattery  in  the  world. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know  I'm  spoiling  him,"  she  would 
say  apologetically.  "  But  you  are  constantly  re- 
peating that  it  can  be  for  only  a  little  time. 
There  is  nothing  about  him  now  that  isn't  lovely. 
Soon  the  traits  of  his  defective  heredity  will  be- 
gin to  emerge,  one  by  one,  until  he  is  all  marred. 
So  you  say.  Then  why  shouldn't  I  make  the 
most  of  him,  before  the  dark  days  come?  But 
they  never  will."  And  Matilda  would  snatch 
up  the  wee  creature  tugging  at  her  skirts  and 
kiss  his  cheeks  all  rosy. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Matilda's  liberty 
was  the  only  thing  sacrificed  to  the  seductive 
whims  of  little  John.  Through  the  fifteen  years 
of  their  married  life,  Matilda  and  her  husband 
had  always  read  the  same  books  and  journals 
and  had  thus  attained  a  broad  basis  for  stimulat- 


36  John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor 

ing  discussion.  Now  Matilda  read  nothing.  Mr. 
Griffith  tried  to  continue  his  devotion  to  the  lit- 
erature of  education,  but  it  was  a  joyless  and 
profitless  proceeding.  Instead  of  taking  in  the 
meaning  of  a  page  at  a  glance,  he  fell  victim  to 
such  a  sense  of  lack  of  connection  that  it  was 
often  a  puzzle  to  him  whether  he  had  read  a 
page  or  no.  He  began  to  have  a  low  opinion  of 
books  that  he  had  formerly  accepted  as  almost 
divinely  inspired.  Nothing  was  the  same  since 
that  little  waster  had  established  himself  in  the 
house. 

The  Circle  still  assembled,  and  still  discussed 
eugenics.  But  the  savor  had  gone  out  of  the  in- 
quiry. Mr.  Griffith  found  his  mind  growing  stiff 
and  stale ;  he  was  no  longer  able  to  hold  a  com- 
manding position  in  the  debate.  More  and  more, 
frivolous  ideas  began  to  find  expression,  under 
the  contagion  of  Matilda's  irresponsible  moods. 
Gustav  had  taken  to  the  detestable  habit  of  dis- 
puting axioms,  and  the  French  teacher  would 
interpolate  anecdotes  that  had  no  better  object 
than  to  raise  a  laugh.  Mr.  Griffith  felt  that  it 
would  perhaps  be  best  to  disband  the  Circle. 
He  was  suffering  keenly,  and  Miss  Platt  suf- 
fered in  sympathy.  She  alone  of  the  Circle  re- 


John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor  37 

alized  how  matters  were  turning,  and  under- 
stood the  true  cause,  in  Matilda's  pathologic 
concentration  on  little  John. 

One  day  when  Miss  Platt  had  concluded  a 
discussion  of  school  discipline  with  Mr.  Griffith, 
she  succeeded,  at  the  cost  of  great  mental  per- 
turbation, in  broaching  the  question  of  what  was 
amiss  in  the  Griffith  household.  Mr.  Griffith  had 
reached  a  point  where  he  had  to  confide  in  some- 
one, and  set  forth  his  despairs  so  eloquently  that 
Miss  Platt  made  up  her  mind  that  it  was  her 
duty  to  do  something  about  it.  Did  Mr.  Griffith 
think  it  would  be  all  right  for  her  to  have  a  heart 
to  heart  talk  with  Matilda?  Mr.  Griffith 
clutched  at  the  straw  eagerly,  desperately.  It 
was  agreed  that  Miss  Platt  should  call  that  very 
evening. 

Accordingly  at  eight  Miss  Platt,  all  weary 
with  screwing  up  her  resolution  to  see  if  it  would 
stick,  rang  the  Griffith  doorbell.  Mr.  Griffith, 
all  weary  with  rehearsing  the  arguments  Miss 
Platt  ought  to  use,  admitted  her. 

"  She's  putting  the  baby  to  bed,"  said  Mr. 
Griffith  in  a  low  voice.  "  It  will  take  some  time, 
but  perhaps  it  would  be  best  to  wait." 

"  I  think  I'll  go  in  and  see  her,"  breathed  Miss 


38  John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor 

Platt,  finding  her  resolution  behaving  like  the 
sand  in  an  hourglass. 

Matilda's  door  was  ajar.  Miss  Platt  stepped 
noiselessly  into  the  room.  Little  John,  all  rosy 
and  naked  down  to  a  last  pink  stocking,  lay  flat 
on  the  white  coverlet,  his  big  eyes,  black  in  the 
lamplight,  fixed  upon  Matilda's  face  smiling 
down  upon  him.  Matilda  was  reciting  with  lisp- 
ing rhythm, 

"  My  son  John 

Went  to  bed  with  his  tockies  on 
One  tockie  off  and  one  tockie  on." 

Suddenly  she  swooped  down  and  kissed  him 
on  his  neck.  John  shrieked  with  laughter  and 
struck  out  valiantly  with  his  chubby  arms  and 
legs.  Matilda  rose,  and  John  lay  flat  again,  his 
defenses  mobilized  for  the  invited  attack,  his 
eyes  and  cheeks  glowing,  his  mouth  open  with 
anticipation  of  laughter. 

Miss  Platt's  resolution  had  ebbed  to  the  last 
grain,  and  a  chilling  embarrassment  seized  her. 
To  have  intruded  upon  such  sweet  intimacies! 
She  had  a  vaguely  troubled  feeling,  as  a  stake 
set  green,  not  quite  dead,  may  form  abortive 
buds  when  spring  bursts  upon  the  fields.  She 
tiptoed  backwards  through  the  door. 


John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor  39 

"Well?"  said  Mr.  Griffith  anxiously. 

Miss  Platt  glanced  at  him  with  a  curiously 
veiled  expression. 

She  shook  her  head.  "  I  don't  think  it  best 
to  broach  those  subjects  we  discussed.  Not  now. 
Good-night"  And  she  was  gone. 

"Didn't  I  hear  you  speaking  to  someone?" 
inquired  Matilda  emerging  into  the  living-room 
with  a  little  figure  in  fuzzy  white  from  toe  to 
crown  riding  on  her  shoulder. 

"  Yes,  it  was  Miss  Platt.  She  wanted  to  speak 
to  you,  but  she  went  away  when  she  found  you 
occupied  with  the  baby." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sorry,  I  wonder  what  she  had  on 
her  mind?  " 

"  I  think  it  was  about  the  Circle.  You  know, 
Matilda,  the  Circle  doesn't  seem  to  amount  to 
much  nowadays." 

"  Oh,  do  you  think  so?  I  hadn't  noticed  any- 
thing wrong.  But  I'm  not  paying  much  atten- 
tion to  the  Circle  now." 

"  That's  just  the  trouble,  Matilda.  You  were 
the  life  of  the  Circle.  You  have  abandoned 
it,  just  like  everything  else  we  held  worth 
while." 

"Oh,   that's   the   trouble?"      Matilda   seated 


40  John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor 

herself  and  drew  little  John  down  into  her  lap. 
"  You  hear  that,  you  terrible  baby."  She 
pinched  John's  cheeks.  "  You've  spoiled  the 
Circle,  and  everything  else  worth  while." 

"Matilda,"  said  Mr.  Griffith,  with  a  note  of 
despair,  "  I  wish  you  would  at  least  take  me 
seriously." 

"Very  well,  we  will,  won't  we,  John?  "  John 
smiled  winsomely. 

"  You  are  an  intelligent,  refined,  educated 
woman.  To  what  use  are  you  putting  your  tal- 
ents? To  serving  as  nurse  for  a  single  child, 
and  that  not  one  with  potentialities  equivalent 
to  your  own,  but  the  child  of  a  defective,  a 
moron." 

Matilda  laughed.  "  According  to  the  statis- 
tics that  is  what  we  intelligent,  educated,  refined 
women  are  coming  to.  What  else  do  we  have  to 
nurse?  And  anyway,  did  you  ever  see  anything 
so  sweet  as  this  little  defective?"  She  stood 
little  John  erect  upon  her  lap  and  pressed  his 
cheek  against  her  own,  which  seemed  to  grow 
rosy  by  contagion. 

Mr.  Griffith  sighed.  It  was  really  of 
no  use,  but  he  might  as  well  go  through 
with  it. 


John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor  41 

"  We  ought  to  bear  in  mind  that  we  have  laid 
out  our  lives  upon  a  definite  plan.  The  need  of 
the  world,  as  we  have  seen  it,  is  better  care  of 
the  people  already  in  it.  Especially  better  train- 
ing for  the  troops  of  children  rising  year  by  year 
to  manhood  and  womanhood.  For  this  work 
we  fitted  ourselves,  to  the  best  of  our  ability. 
We  have  not  spared  effort  in  keeping  ourselves 
abreast  of  the  best  that  is  being  done  in  the  edu- 
cational field.  To  this  end  we  have  subordinated 
everything.  We  agreed  that  we  would  forego 
many  things  that  go  to  make  up  the  ordinary 
happiness  of  life.  We  agreed  that  we  could  not 
be  handicapped  by  cares  of  a  purely  individu- 
alistic, domestic  character." 

"We  agreed?"  demanded  Matilda  saucily. 
"  No,  you  agreed." 

Mr.  Griffith  sank  back  in  his  chair,  visibly 
shaken. 

"I  agreed?    Well,  anyway,  you  assented." 

"Of  course,"  Matilda  laughed.  "I'm  being 
terribly  unkind.  But,  Harold,  do  you  ever  look 
backward  over  our  educational  strivings?  Think 
how  enthusiastic  we  were,  when  we  were  very 
young,  over  the  substitution  of  science  for  clas- 
sics in  the  high  school  course.  We  thought  that 


42  John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor 

would  extirpate  the  children's  indifference  and 
idleness.  It  didn't.  How  many  other  enthusi- 
asms we've  had  since;  manual  training,  training 
for  citizenship,  moral  training,  industrial  train- 
ing, and  what  not.  And  it  is  the  same  old  strug- 
gle with  children  who  don't  want  to  surrender 
their  personalities  to  us.  We  can't  get  very  near 
to  the  children  in  the  schools.  I  am  near  to  this 
little  piece  of  humanity  anyway." 

"  I  think  you're  not  quite  fair  to  our  schools, 
Matilda,"  said  Mr.  Griffith  weakly.  "  We  do  get 
better  results.  We  do  interest  a  greater  propor- 
tion. There  are  more  children  now  who  like  to 
go  to  school." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  suppose  I  am  unfair.  I  suppose 
it  is  because  I've  been  so  frightfully  bored 
through  all  these  years.  Those  educational 
books  and  journals  I've  forced  myself  to  grind 
through !  Heavens,  how  did  I  ever  survive 
them?  There  wasn't  the  least  bit  about  them 
that  was  real,  to  me.  I  didn't  know  why  I  was 
coming  to  feel  so  old  before  my  time.  Now  I 
know,  because  I've  found  something  real  in  this 
wee  child  of  sin.  Why,  he's  fast  asleep.  It  was 
the  educational  talk  that  did  it.  He  must  away 
to  his  little  bed.  And  don't  mind  the  nonsense 


John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor  43 

I've  talked,  Harold.     Somehow  I  seem  to  be  in- 
toxicated.    Perhaps  it's  the  spring." 

Don't  mind?  Imagine  that  at  the  cost  of  your 
youth  and  much  travail  you  have  erected  a  tem- 
ple, not  spacious  nor  lofty,  perhaps,  but  built 
according  to  the  most  approved  canons  you 
know.  And  within  it  you  have  nourished  a  flame 
of  the  ideal,  rather  thin,  emitting  little  light  and 
less  warmth,  but  still  a  flame.  And  one  day  the 
woman  that  God  gave  you  opens  the  temple 
door,  gazes  calmly  upon  the  flame,  and  with  a 
breath  puts  it  out.  Don't  mind! 


MATILDA'S  mood  was  for  all  the  world 
like  that  of  the  June  breeze,  playing 
through  the  open  window  beside  her.  Now  the 
breeze  would  be  soft  as  a  child's  breath,  joyous 
with  its  burden  of  fragrance  from  the  apple 
trees;  now  it  would  whip  itself  into  a  petulant 
humor,  scattering  the  blossoms  like  drifting 
snowflakes.  For  some  minutes  you'd  feel  the 
coolness  and  soft  exuberance  of  the  spring  just 
expiring.  Suddenly  the  character  of  the  breeze 
would  change  and  you'd  become  conscious  of 
the  glow  and  tense  purpose  of  the  summer.  Ma- 
tilda was  watching  little  John,  seated  cross- 
legged  on  the  floor,  constructing  towers  of 
blocks.  Her  eyes  glowed  gently;  John  looked 
to  her  more  beautiful  and  adorable  than  she  had 
imagined  anything  mortal  could  look.  His 
cheeks  were  a  dusky  flame  under  their  soft  tan; 
his  eyes  were  great  limpid  jewels;  his  hair  was 
a  mass  of  lustrous  brown  curls.  His  whole  heart 
was  in  the  success  of  his  tower,  and  so  by  sym- 
pathy was  Matilda's.  It  was  John's  project  and 

44 


John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor  45 

Matilda  refrained  from  interfering.  But  when 
he  would  lay  a  block  out  of  the  true,  dooming 
his  whole  structure  to  collapse,  Matilda  could 
hardly  keep  from  crying  sharply :  "  No,  no, 
John,  not  that  way  at  all !  " 

The  blocks  annoyed  her.  They  were  decorated 
with  big  letters  and  numerals,  animals,  birds, 
ships,  locomotives,  all  done  in  hideously  crude 
colors.  It  was  not  the  crude  color  that  offended 
Matilda,  but  the  na'ive  and  crafty  educational 
purpose.  Disgusting  trickery,  to  try  to  catch 
the  purest  and  sweetest  thing  in  the  world,  a 
child's  instinct  for  play,  and  foist  a  bit  of  educa- 
tion on  it.  Matilda  had  commissioned  Mr.  Grif- 
fith to  get  plain  blocks,  but  none  were  to  be  had 
in  town.  The  educational  plot  against  babyhood 
was  all-pervading,  and  Matilda  indignantly  sus- 
pected Mr.  Griffith  of  being  in  sympathy  with 
it.  She  had  caught  him  trying  to  teach  John 
the  names  of  the  letters,  and  she  had  not  only 
put  a  stop  to  this  endeavor,  but  she  had  made 
Mr.  Griffith  promise  to  do  the  blocks  over  in 
plain  colors. 

Down  came  the  tower  with  a  crash  that  made 
Matilda  put  her  hands  to  her  ears.  "Huh!" 
exclaimed  little  John,  turning  his  bright  face  to 


46  John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor 

Matilda.  He  picked  up  a  block  and  pointed  a 
tiny  finger  at  a  grotesque  hippopotamus. 

"  A-e-e,"  he  lisped  sweetly.  He  took  up  an- 
other block  without  looking  at  it. 

"  B-e-e." 

Now  he  stooped  over  and  examined  a  block 
with  his  little  brows  puckered  as  for  a  mighty 
intellectual  effort.  His  finger  wandered  over 
the  figure  of  an  automobile  of  the  horseless  car- 
riage stage. 

"  The-ee."  He  threw  the  block  as  far  away 
as  he  could  and  laughed  so  merrily  that  Matilda 
laughed  herself  into  a  sunny  humor.  After  all, 
in  the  contest  between  education  and  babyhood, 
it's  babyhood  that  wins. 

"Matilda!"  Mr.  Griffith  appeared  in  the 
doorway.  His  face  had  grown  thinner  of  late, 
and  a  nervous  weariness  had  become  habitual 
with  him.  Just  now  his  brow  was  knotted  with 
perplexity  and  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
twitched. 

"  I've  been  hunting  this  house  over  for  Dug- 
dale's  Jukes.  It  seems  to  have  disappeared  com- 
pletely. You  haven't  seen  it?" 

Matilda's  cheeks  flushed  but  her  eyes  rested 
calmly  on  her  husband's  face. 


John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor  47 

"  I  burned  it." 

"  Burned  it !  "  gasped  Mr.  Griffith. 

"  Yes,  I  burned  it.  I  also  burned  Goddard's 
Kallikak  Family,  and  Davenport,  and  Saleeby." 

"  But  my  dear !  Those  were  public  library 
books ! " 

"  Yes.  The  public  library  shouldn't  have  such 
books.  They  should  never  have  been  written. 
They  hang  like  a  dreadful  curse  over  my  sweet 
little  son  John."  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
"My  innocent,  beautiful  baby  John." 

"It's  all  right,  my  dear,  "said  Mr.  Griffith 
apologetically.  But  the  storm  of  sorrow  was 
upon  Matilda  now  and  was  not  so  easily  to  be 
checked.  Little  John  stared  up  at  Matilda  with 
round  eyes  of  wonder.  His  mamma  crying? 
Why?  One  thing  was  clear  to  him,  however; 
whatever  you  have  to  cry  for,  it's  a  great  comfort 
to  be  kissed.  He  trotted  to  Matilda's  couch  and 
climbed  upon  it.  "  Poo'  Ma,  poo'  Ma,"  he  said 
soothingly,  and  showered  kisses  on  her  wet 
cheek.  The  charm  seemed  not  to  work  well. 
Matilda  began  to  sob  violently,  and  then  sud- 
denly became  very  pale  and  still. 

"  My  dear ! "  cried  Harold,  aghast.  He  set 
John  on  the  floor  and  supported  Matilda's  head 


John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor 


with  cushions.  Then  he  ran  to  the  telephone. 
Little  John,  overwhelmed  with  a  vague  woe, 
pressed  his  brow  against  the  floor  and  wailed 
miserably. 

"  You  needn't  have  called  the  doctor,"  said 
Matilda  faintly.  "  I'm  much  better  now." 

The  next  morning  little  John  awoke  to  a  new 
order  of  the  universe.  His  mamma  was  not  at 
hand  to  dress  him.  Instead,  there  was  a  brusque, 
stout  person  who  explained  to  him  that  she  was 
Mrs.  Lake,  a  practical  nurse.  This  seemed  no 
good  reason  to  John  why  she  should  violate  his 
liberty  by  dressing  him.  He  resisted  to  the  best 
of  his  ability,  but  succumbed  to  superior  force. 
Softly  crying,  he  set  out  for  a  tour  of  the  house. 
"  Ma  de' !  Ma  de' !  "  Mr.  Griffith,  who  had  just 
returned  to  the  house,  encountered  John  emerg- 
ing from  the  study. 

"  My  dear  son  John,"  he  said  tenderly,  "  your 
mamma  isn't  in  the  house.  She  has  gone  away 
for  a  few  days.  Then  she  will  come  back." 

John  stared  incredulously.  There  were  still 
two  rooms  to  explore.  He  went  through  them 
calling  despairingly,  "  Ma  de' !  Ma  de' !  "  Soon 
he  returned  to  the  living-room  and  climbed  upon 
the  settee  to  watch  the  approach  to  the  house. 


John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor  49 

He  was  taken  away  for  breakfast,  and  after 
breakfast  reluctantly  followed  Mrs.  Lake  for  a 
walk.  But  on  this  day,  and  the  days  following, 
whenever  he  could  escape  the  tyranny  of  supe- 
rior force  he  would  make  for  the  settee  and  gaze 
down  the  walk  toward  the  street.  In  the  morn- 
ings he  would  slip  quietly  from  his  bed  and  plant 
himself  on  the  settee  until  Mrs.  Lake  should 
come  to  dress  him. 

One  night  Mr.  Griffith,  whose  room  adjoined 
John's,  was  awakened  by  the  sound  of  a  little 
body  bumping  against  his  bed.  It  was  John 
walking  in  a  stupor.  "  Ma  de',"  he  whimpered. 
Mr.  Griffith  caught  the  little  somnambulist  in 
his  arms  and  was  startled  to  find  his  face  flaming 
hot.  Plainly  something  was  amiss  with  little 
John.  The  doctor,  summoned  from  his  bed,  said 
that  there  was  probably  not  much  the  matter, 
but  he  would  call  again  the  next  day.  In  the 
morning,  John  was  pale  and  quiet,  wholly  con- 
tent to  lie  abed,  until  his  cheeks  again  began  to 
glow  and  his  eyes  to  shine  with  fever.  The  doc- 
tor made  show  of  taking  cultures  and  looked 
very  wise  and  efficient.  Mrs.  Lake  was  thor- 
oughly quizzed  as  to  where  she  had  taken  little 
John  on  her  walks,  and  whether  he  had  been 


50  John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor 

with  other  children.  According  to  the  manner 
of  practical  nurses,  Mrs.  Lake  asserted  stoutly 
that  she  knew  nothing  and  had  not  taken  John 
to  any  place  where  he  could  possibly  have  been 
exposed  to  infection.  Whatever  the  malady 
that  had  befallen  little  John,  it  was  plainly  be- 
yond the  competence  of  the  doctor.  Half  the 
child's  days  had  fallen  from  him,  and  he  was 
again  an  inarticulate  little  thing,  passive,  except 
for  his  tiny  hands  with  fingers  opening  and  clos- 
ing persistently  as  if  grasping  for  something 
forbidden  him.  Life,  no  doubt,  and  light  and 
the  world,  beautiful  as  it  is  to  the  wide  eyes  of 
babyhood. 

It  was  all  over  with  little  John,  and  the  menace 
of  defective  traits  emerging  was  defeated.  No 
longer  did  his  restless  little  form  throw  a  long 
shadow  over  posterity,  Jukes  or  Kallikaks,  crimi- 
nal and  pauper  youths,  foolish  maids  dancing 
down  a  primrose  path  extending  through  the 
generations.  That,  said  Gustav,  was  the  science 
of  it,  but  the  life  of  it  was,  the  sun  would  be 
less  bright,  the  springtime  less  sweet,  the  world 
less  beautiful,  because  little  John  was  not.  The 
doctor  offered  sage  opinions  as  to  the  low  sur- 
vival capacity  of  individuals  of  defective  stock. 


No  doubt  John  had  harked  back  to  an  ancestor 
who  had  a  penchant  for  dying  in  infancy.  Oh, 
excellent  science !  It  did  not  save  a  baby's  life, 
but  it  saved  a  brave  professional  face. 

Of  all  this  Matilda  was  unaware.  She  had 
very  nearly  met  death  herself,  and  at  the  time 
when  John  was  swiftly  declining  to  extinction, 
Matilda  in  her  mortal  weakness  had  accepted  as 
quite  cogent  the  reasons  presented  by  Mr.  Grif- 
fith for  not  bringing  little  John  to  see  her.  John 
had  a  cold  that  might  be  infectious,  and  there 
was  another  person  to  be  considered,  John's 
new  brother,  tiny  and  wizened,  but  evincing  an 
unshakable  determination  to  live.  This  excuse 
held  even  after  Matilda's  strength  had  greatly 
improved.  Matilda  might  have  wondered  at  the 
persistence  of  the  indisposition  if  what  remained 
of  her  consciousness  beyond  pain  and  weariness 
had  not  been  occupied  with  a  series  of  revela- 
tions as  to  what  you  can  find  out  about  a  per- 
sonality at  its  very  dawn.  The  new  baby  was  in- 
credibly interesting.  As  you  can  see,  a  hideous 
obligation  to  report  the  truth  rested  upon  Mr. 
Griffith,  poor  broken  creature,  whose  cares  in 
the  late  weeks  had  quite  consumed  whatever 
initiative  he  had  possessed. 


52  John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor 

One  Sunday  morning  Gustav  called,  at  Mr. 
Griffith's  urgent  request.  Mr.  Griffith  met  him 
as  he  approached  the  house. 

"  They  are  at  home  again,"  said  Mr.  Griffith 
nervously. 

"  Ja,  so.  But  how  does  she  bear  it?  "  Gustav 
eyed  Mr.  Griffith  narrowly. 

"  She  doesn't  know  yet.  She  jumped  to  the 
conclusion  that  he  was  out  with  Mrs.  Lake,  and 
I — I  want  you  to  tell  her,  Gustav." 

"Me!"  cried  Gustav,  outraged.  "I?  Und 
vy  me?  Vy  me?  " 

"Gustav,"  pleaded  Mr.  Griffith.  "I  simply 
can't  do  it.  She  is  so  happy,  and  I'm — well, 
I'm " 

"  You  are  her  husband,"  said  Gustav  aus- 
terely. "Vat  am  I?  Nodhing.  I  am  a  Ger- 
man, and  therefore  you  think  I  haf  no  heart. 
But  Gemuth,  Gustav !  "  He  strode  past  Mr. 
Griffith  to  the  door. 

Matilda  was  in  the  living-room,  on  the  settee 
by  the  window  where  she  could  command  the 
approach  to  the  house.  By  her  side  was  a  bas- 
ket, wherein  one  could  discover  a  little  pink  head 
peeping  out  of  the  white  with  two  tiny  wrinkled 
hands  pressing  against  the  pearl-colored  ears. 


John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor  53 

"  Ah,  how  glad  we  are  to  see  you  home  again, 
Mrs.  Griffith,  looking  so  veil  and  beaudiful," 
rumbled  Gustav.  "  See,  see,  dhat  is  dhe  little 
son !  Fine  head ;  it  is  dhe  head  of  a  philosopher ! 
And  dhose  little  strong  hands;  he  vill  haf  a  vill 
of  his  own !  Much  trouble  he  vill  make  you,  and 
much  more  joy." 

"Yes,"  smiled  Matilda,  "much  trouble,  but 
I'm  not  afraid.  As  for  joy,  I  already  have  it. 
Do  you  know,  Gustav,  little  John  hasn't  seen 
him  yet?  Won't  he  be  an  astonished  baby?  " 

Gustav  cleared  his  throat.  If  only  he  had  a 
manageable  voice ;  but  his  bass  was  sure  to  split 
if  he  tried  to  soften  it. 

"  Dear  lady — little  John  vas  very  sick.  Ve 
dared  not  tell  you.  Ve  did  all  ve  could.  Dhe 
doctor  vas  splendid,  it  vas  as  if  it  had  been  a 
little  prince.  But  ve  could  nodhing.  Little 
John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor  is  gadhered  to  his 
fadhers." 

Matilda  was  very  still.  Gustav  did  not  dare  to 
look  at  her.  But  the  world  had  to  go  on,  and 
something  had  to  be  said. 

"  It  is  a  fine  baby  you  haf,  dhat  is  sure.  And 
vat  vill  ve  call  dhe  little  heir  of  dhe  House  of 
Griffith?" 


54  John  Stuyvesant  Ancestor 

Matilda  remained  silent,  an  aeon,  it  seemed,  to 
Gustav.  Then  in  a  voice  that  seemed  quite  calm, 
she  said: 

"  I  shall  call  him  John  Stuyvesant  2nd.  For 
after  all  it  was  the  coming  of  little  John  that 
changed " 

A  sob  interrupted  her.  Deep  awe  fell  upon 
Gustav;  he  was  in  the  presence  of  mystery.  He 
tiptoed  away,  the  floor  creaking  mightily  under 
him. 


II 
A  Place  in  the  Sun 

THE  Limited  had  been  making  up  time,  pick- 
ing its  way  among  bare,  red-brown  hills 
scattered  at  random  over  a  plain  so  burned  and 
dead  that  not  even  the  candelabra  cactus  could 
raise  its  spiny  arms  except  in  the  rare  depres- 
sions of  extinct  water  courses.  But  now  the 
train  had  come  to  a  halt  that  promised  to  be 
protracted.  The  passengers  were  leaving  the 
cars,  and  from  my  window  I  observed  what  ap- 
peared to  be  a  party  organizing  to  scale  a 
nearby  hill.  Already  two  girls  were  a  hundred 
yards  from  the  tracks;  and  headed  toward  the 
same  hill,  if  not  directly  following,  were  most 
of  the  younger  male  passengers. 

"Did  you  ever  see  such  fools?"  asked  the 
Omaha  lady  who  occupied  the  seat  facing  mine. 
But  then  she  had  all  along  borne  an  unaccount- 
able grudge  against  those  two  girls  now  climbing 
with  shrieks  of  laughter  from  rock  to  rock.  To 
my  mind  they  made  up  a  very  pretty  picture, 

55 


56  A  Place  in  the  Sun 

with  their  hair  of  miraculous  blond  hue,  their 
red  blouses  and  green  skirts  lighting  up  the  deso- 
late hillside.  What  if  their  eyes  were  a  little 
too  innocently  blue,  their  cheeks  a  little  too. 
radiantly  pink,  on  close  inspection? 

"  It's  no  use  sitting  here  indefinitely,"  I  said, 
rising. 

"  I  suppose  you'll  climb  the  hill  too?  "  queried 
the  Omaha  lady  contemptuously. 

"  I  might,  if  it  weren't  so  hot  and  I  weren't  so 
lazy,"  I  replied.  "  But  I'm  going  to  see  the 
town." 

"Town?    Huh!" 

The  conductor  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  car, 
beside  the  little  pedestal  that  helps  you  to  alight. 

"How  long  are  we  to  be  here?"  I  inquired. 

"  Lord  knows.  There  has  been  a  washout  up 
the  track." 

"Washout!"  I  exclaimed  incredulously,  scan- 
ning the  hard  blue  sky. 

"  You  think  it  never  rains  in  this  country. 
But  it  does.  Once  in  ten  years.  And  then,  oh 
Lord!  I've  seen  two  feet  of  water  in  the  sta- 
tion down  there." 

I  looked  down  the  track  toward  the  station, 
a  little  stuccoed  mission  structure,  confronted 


A  Place  in  the  Sun  57 

across  the  track  by  a  half  dozen  other  buildings 
rising  out  of  the  hot  sand.  Two  feet  of  water 
there?  Railway  men  are  of  course  always  to 
be  believed,  but  how  did  the  water  have  a  chance 
to  accumulate?  After  all,  that  was  not  much 
more  incredible  than  that  people  could  actually 
be  living  here.  I  decided  to  go  down  the  track 
to  assure  myself  on  this  point. 

The  first  building  bore  the  sign,  "  James  Black 
and  Co.  Fuel  and  Feed."  A  grim  joke,  one 
might  suppose,  in  a  place  where  the  ther- 
mometer is  fixed  at  100  and  where  excepting 
horned  lizards  there  can  be  no  animal  life  what- 
soever. Through  the  open  window  of  the 
"  office  "  I  saw  the  lank  figure  of  a  man,  uncom- 
fortably disposed  over  a  revolving  chair,  his 
feet  on  the  desk  before  him.  He  appeared  to  be 
dozing,  but  really  no  one  could  doze  in  such  a 
position. 

"  Hello !  "  I  said.    "  How's  business?  " 

"  Go  to  hell !  "  he  retorted,  turning  toward  me 
with  a  melancholy  grin.  "  It's  right  near  here." 

The  next  building,  with  the  sign,  "  General 
Merchandise  "  on  its  front,  appeared  to  be  va- 
cant. Indeed,  there  were  no  further  signs  of 
life  until  I  reached  the  last  building,  a  green 


58  A  Place  in  the  Sun 

bungalow,  opposite  the  station.  In  a  hammock 
on  the  veranda  a  woman  in  a  white  linen  dress 
was  reading.  Her  hair  was  a  luminous 
reddish  brown,  like  the  landscape  where  the 
sun's  rays  fell  aslant.  Somehow  I  could  not  re- 
sist the  temptation  to  pause  to  gaze  at  it.  The 
woman  turned  her  face  toward  me. 

"Why!"  I  exclaimed,  "  Estelle  Ayers!" 
"  Estelle  Ayers,  that  was,"  she  replied  calmly. 
"  Haven't  you  forgotten  that  I  have  a  husband?  " 
"  Oh   no,  I  remember  that  well  enough.     I've 
forgotten  your  husband's  name,  but  I  remember 
a  lot  about  him.    He  had  just  inherited  a  whole- 
sale hardware  business,   and  he  was   going   to 
learn  the  difference  between  a  miter  box  and 
an  adz." 

"  Yes,  that  is  what  he  told  you." 
"But  aren't  you  surprised  over  my  call?" 
"  No.     Everybody  calls  on  one  here,  if  one 
stays  long  enough." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so.    But  how  long  have  you 
been  staying  here?  " 

"  Three  years." 
,     "Health,  I  suppose?" 
'     "  No.    Bread  and  butter." 

I  gasped.     Estelle  Ayers,  the  most  brilliant 


A  Place  in  the  Sun  59 

girl  in  her  college  class,  marooned  here  in  the 
desert? 

"  I'll  answer  your  question  even  if  you  don't 
ask  it,"  she  said.  "  I  married  money,  or  at  any 
rate  a  lot  of  hardware.  But  Mr.  Bruce  and  I 
soon  exhausted  all  the  intellectual  content  of  the 
hardware  business.  We  traded  it  for  a  news- 
paper, which  we  made  educational  and  indepen- 
dent. We  reported  the  wrong  things  about  the 
right  people,  and  lost  our  advertising.  So  we 
traded  the  paper  for  an  academy  in  a  western 
state,  but  the  county  opened  a  union  high  school 
in  the  same  town.  We  sold  the  academy  to  the 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  and  bought  a  mine.  Then  we  de- 
cided that  in  this  epoch  of  transportation  we 
ought  to  attach  ourselves  to  the  railways.  As 
Mr.  Bruce  said,  we  would  get  all  the  romance 
out  of  it  by  beginning  at  the  bottom  and  work- 
ing up.  This  is  the  bottom." 

"  Well,  well !  "  cried  a  thin  masculine  voice  at 
my  elbow.  "  I  am  delighted."  Mr.  Bruce  seized 
my  hand  and  wrung  it  enthusiastically.  He  was 
a  little  man,  with  bright  brown  eyes  and  a  viva- 
cious mouth  fringed  with  a  silky  black  mus- 
tache. I  had  seen  him  only  once  before  and 
had  liked  him  as  well  as  one  may  be  expected 


60  A  Place  in  the  Sun 

to  like  the  man  who  carries  off  into  matrimony 
a  girl  for  whom  one  has  predicted  a  brilliant 
career.  I  liked  him  very  little  now  that  he  was 
proved  unsuccessful,  and  I  found  myself  trying 
to  recall  that  I  had  set  him  down  as  flighty  and 
irresponsible. 

"  Wonderful  country  this  is !  "  he  exclaimed. 
"  The  air  is  perfect,  and  such  sunshine !  If  only 
we  had  time,  I'd  take  you  to  the  top  of  that  big 
mountain  over  there." 

I  glanced  at  the  mountain,  a  forbidding  mass 
of  burned  rock. 

"What  would  we  see?"  I  inquired. 

"  Other  mountains  just  like  it,"  said  Estelle,  in 
a  weary  voice.  "  You  see  how  these  mountains 
are  made?  First  a  little  hump,  then  a  bigger 
one,  then  another  hump  much  bigger,  then  one 
not  quite  so  big,  and  finally  a  very  little  one." 

I  ran  my  eyes  over  the  outlines  of  the  dozen 
or  more  mountains  within  range  of  my  vision. 

"  They  are  all  really  of  a  pattern,"  I  admitted. 

"  Yes,  do  you  know  what  Estelle  calls  them?  " 
cried  Mr.  Bruce,  laughing  immoderately.  "  She 
calls  them  the  Devil's  wall  paper.  But  I'll  tell 
you  what  I'll  do.  I'll  show  you  my  farm.  Come 
on!" 


A  Place  in  the  Sun  61 

He  seized  my  arm  and  led  me  across  the  rail- 
way track  to  a  slight  depression  near  the  water 
tank. 

"See  that  dripping  leak?"  asked  Mr.  Bruce 
with  a  large  gesture.  "  Observe  it  well.  It  is 
the  causa  causans,  the  prime  source.  When  the 
company  sends  up  a  gang  to  stop  the  leak,  we 
have  a  drought  on  my  farm.  But  the  winds 
rock  the  tank  until  she  springs  a  new  leak,  and 
then  my  farm  flows  with  milk  and  honey." 

We  had  arrived  at  the  farm.  It  was  a  carefully 
leveled  space,  five  feet  by  thirty,  with  a  conduit 
of  old  sheet  iron  down  its  center.  The  end 
nearest  the  track  was  a  rich  green,  with  beets, 
lettuce  and  onions.  Half  way  down  the  vege- 
tation became  stunted  and  yellow,  and  near  the 
farther  end  only  a  few  tightly  curled  dry  leaves 
gave  evidence  of  husbandry.  But  at  the  very 
end  of  the  conduit  loomed  a  cabbage,  dark 
green,  immense,  flat  as  a  drumhead. 

"See  that  cabbage?"  cried  Mr.  Bruce. 
"  Greedy  fellow,  he's  eaten  half  my  water.  Do 
you  realize,  that  is  the  only  cabbage  growing 
within  a  hundred  miles  of  this  spot?  Come  up 
on  this  knoll " — Mr.  Bruce  leapt  upon  a  heap  of 
broken  stone.  "  You  get  a  good  view  of  the 


62  A  Place  in  the  Sun 

whole  farm.  Hullo !  There  are  your  fellow  pas- 
sengers on  top  of  Mount  Marcos.  Wonderful 
how  far  you  can  see  through  this  clear  air. 
Those  two  girls,  now;  you  can  see  their  hair  is 
yellow.  My,  they're  jolly,  aren't  they?  And  the 
boys  seem  to  be  having  a  good  time,  too.  Look 
at  those  bored  old  captains  of  industry  swelter- 
ing beside  the  train.  Bet  they're  thirsty.  Oh 
say,  I've  got  an  idea!  Let's  run  back  to  the 
house." 

We  really  ran,  Mr.  Bruce  eagerly,  I  protest- 
ingly.  I  don't  like  the  exercise  especially  when 
I  don't  know  why  I'm  running. 

"  Estelle !  "  cried  Mr.  Bruce  excitedly.  "  Get 
me  a  bucket  and  some  lemons.  I'm  going  to  re- 
fresh that  crowd  down  by  the  train." 

"  They  have  plenty  of  lemonade  in  the  buffet 
car,"  said  Estelle. 

"  Not  my  kind."  Mr.  Bruce  darted  into  the 
bungalow. 

"Estelle!     Where's  the  molasses?  " 

"  Top  shelf,"  replied  Estelle.  I  looked  at  her 
in  wonder.  She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

Presently  Mr.  Bruce  returned  to  the  veranda 
with  a  bucket  full  of  a  brown  tinted  liquid,  in 
which  a  few  slices  of  lemon  were  swimming.  He 


A  Place  in  the  Sun  63 

had  discarded  his  coat  and  had  donned  a  dusty 
old  hat  and  a  pair  of  many-wrinkled  top  boots. 
Even  if  you  had  never  seen  a  boot-legger  you 
would  have  taken  him  for  one. 

"What  do  you  think  of  my  lemonade?"  he 
asked,  dipping  a  glassful  and  holding  it  up  to 
the  light.  "  What  does  it  make  you  think  of?  " 
He  shook  with  suppressed  laughter.  "  '  Here 
gents,  your  nice  cool  lemonade.  The  more  you 
drink  the  thirstier  you  get.  For  gents  only. 
Ten  cents  a  glass!'  That  will  get  the  captains 
of  industry,  I  guess."  He  set  out  for  the  train 
at  a  half  trot,  the  bucket  splashing  against  his 
leg. 

For  several  moments  neither  Estelle  nor  I 
spoke.  I  was  embarrassed,  and  felt  that  I  ought 
to  say  something,  but  about  what?  Estelle 
wasn't  embarrassed,  but  was  taking  a  mild  satis- 
faction in  my  helplessness. 

"  What  are  you  reading?  "  I  asked  at  last. 

She  handed  me  her  book.  It  was  yellow  with 
age,  apparently  a  thriller  of  an  earlier  genera- 
tion. 

"  The  House  on  the  Marsh,"  I  read  aloud. 

"  A  very  worthless  book,  you  are  thinking," 
she  said  quietly. 


64  A  Place  in  the  Sun 

"  No,  who  am  I  to  pass  judgment  on  books  I 
have  never  read?  " 

"  Well,  it  is  really  worthless.  But  why  should- 
n't I  read  worthless  books?" 

"  You  wrote  very  pretty  verses  in  college. 
And  I  recall  that  encouraging  letter  you  had 
from  Mr.  Howells  on  your  first  story.  Are  you 
writing  anything  now?  " 

"  No,  why  should  I  write?  As  you  see,  I  have 
attained  my  place  in  the  sun." 

Surely  there  was  still  something  to  be  said, 
but  I  could  not  think  what  it  was.  So  I  remained 
silent,  pretending  an  interest  in  the  red  burned 
mountain  opposite,  and  in  its  blue-black  shadow 
now  lengthening  across  the  plain.  Estelle  closed 
her  eyes. 

"  The  glare  makes  one's  eyes  very  tired,  in  the 
end,"  she  said.  But  that  did  not  revive  my 
tongue  from  paralysis.  It  was  with  immense  re- 
lief that  I  espied  Mr.  Bruce,  returning  from  the 
train  with  all  the  spirit  of  one  of  those  dancing 
little  desert  whirlwinds. 

"  The  basis  of  a  fortune,"  he  shouted  as  he 
ascended  the  steps.  "  Listen !  "  He  jingled  his 
pocket.  "  They  bit  like  sandflies.  There  was 
only  one  insect  in  my  ointment."  He  drew  from 


A  Place  in  the  Sun  65 

his  pocket  a  handful  of  coins  and  picked  out  one 
of  them.  "  Look  at  that." 

"  Why,  it  is  a  lead  quarter,  not  even  washed 
with  silver,"  I  said. 

"  If  you  are  my  friend,  you'll  manage  to  step 
on  the  foot  of  that  big,  fat  captain  of  industry 
with  a  squint  eye,  after  the  train  moves  on.  The 
rest  of  them  were  game.  They'd  take  a  swallow, 
make  a  face,  then  gulp  it  down  and  laugh. 
*  Good  stuff! '  they'd  say;  I  needed  a  bat  to  keep 
the  rest  off.  But  that  old  captain  of  industry, 
confound  him,  emptied  his  glass,  winked  and 
gave  me  this  quarter.  '  Now  let's  both  squeal,' 
he  said,  '  or  you  give  me  change.' ' 

"  Plainly  we've  missed  our  calling,"  said  Es- 
telle.  "  Perhaps  it's  not  too  late  even  now  to 
go  into  business,  at  the  bottom." 

Mr.  Bruce  laughed  joyously,  and  ran  across 
the  track  to  the  station.  As  for  me,  I  was  again 
puzzling  about  what  to  say,  as  if  that  in  the  least 
mattered.  I  was  delivered  from  my  perplexity 
by  the  sound  of  the  locomotive  bell  and  a  long 
drawn  "  All  aboard  "  from  the  conductor. 

"  Good-by,  Estelle,"  I  said,  offering  my 
hand. 

"  Good-by,"  said  Estelle  impassively,  picking 


66  A  Place  in  the  Sun 

up  The  House  on  the  Marsh  with  her  disengaged 
hand. 

The  passengers  were  again  on  board.  All  the 
younger  men  and  some  not  so  young  had 
crowded  into  my  car  around  the  two  girls  who 
had  led  the  expedition  to  the  hilltop.  All  had 
discarded  their  surnames  and  were  evidently 
bent  on  a  most  sociable  time.  The  Omaha  lady 
facing  me  looked  grim  as  an  Aztec  figurine. 
Slowly  the  train  began  to  move.  As  it  passed 
the  station  I  watched  for  the  chance  of  another 
glimpse  of  Estelle.  She  was  standing  at  the  edge 
of  the  veranda,  facing  the  east,  from  which  a 
strong  wind  was  blowing.  What  had  become  of 
her  passivity?  With  the  wind  in  her  hair  and 
garments,  she  seemed  a  symbol  of  life  just 
awakening. 

Some  months  later  I  wrote  to  Estelle,  with  a 
literary  project  as  pretext.  But  my  letter  was 
returned  to  me  unopened  by  Mr.  Bruce,  with 
the  statement  that  Estelle  was  visiting  friends 
in  the  East,  and  he  had  unfortunately  mislaid  the 
card  with  her  address.  The  air  was  simply 
glorious,  he  added,  and  he  was  expecting  to  en- 
large his  farm,  as  the  water  tank  was  leaking 
exuberantly. 


Ill 
A  Sympathetic  Strike 

HE  was  a  pockmarked  Jew,  crinkly-haired, 
with  features  set  pugnaciously ;  but  peace- 
fully enough  sipping  his  rye  and  soda  over  the 
foam-stained  bar.  It  was  late  and  business  was 
slow;  the  very  lights  seemed  depressed  in  their 
vain  efforts  to  cheer  up  the  dim  corners  of  Neb- 
bin's  Palace.  The  Aphrodite  Anadyomene  lay 
dead  upon  the  rear  wall,  and  the  nymphs  and 
satyrs  above  the  bottled  goods  were  perishing 
from  tedium.  The  host,  bald,  pink,  enormous, 
undulated  to  and  fro  behind  the  bar  as  if  there 
were  an  eager  row  of  customers  to  serve.  Pres- 
ently he  paused  and  leered  at  the  Jew. 

"Remember  that  coat  you  sold  me?  All  the 
buttons  busted  off." 

"What  the  devil  you  expect?"  retorted  the 
Jew  fiercely.  "  You  saloonkeepers  get  fatter 
and  fatter;  no  coat  could  hold  you.  Look  at 
you,  now — bearing  down  all  over  you.  You're 
a  fine  one  to  fit." 

67 


68  A  Sympathetic  Strike 

The  saloonkeeper  chuckled  uncomfortably. 
"Where  are  you  now,  Leo?  I  heard  that  you 
were  leaving  Erismann's." 

"Me  leaving?  No,  I  went  on  strike.  That's 
what  you  heard.  Tell  you  about  it.  You  re- 
member Baruch?  No — he  never  spent  a  cent 
in  such  a  place  as  this.  Awful  nice  fellow, 
Baruch  is.  He  had  a  sick  wife  and  four  little 
children,  and  the  boss  paid  him  eighteen  dollars 
a  week.  Paid  me  thirty-six,  because  I'm  single 
and  don't  need  the  job.  Every  dollar  the  boss 
spends  in  wages  has  got  to  produce  six.  That's 
his  principle.  But  every  dollar  he  spent  on 
Baruch  produced  twelve.  Baruch  had  to  be 
thankful  for  anything,  with  his  sick  wife  and 
little  children.  He  worked  awful  hard,  jumping 
out  on  the  street  and  dragging  in  customers  and 
holding  them  till  the  boss  could  sell  them. 

"  Well,  Baruch's  wife  got  worse  and  had  to 
go  to  the  madhouse,  and  Baruch  couldn't  keep 
from  crying  sometimes.  And  the  boss  didn't 
like  it :  '  How  can  I  sell  a  customer  with  that 
fellow  pulling  his  long  face  around?'  In  the 
busy  time  he  stood  for  it,  but  so  soon  as  the 
slack  time  came,  Baruch  came  to  me,  and  he 
said, '  The  boss  is  going  to  lay  me  off  three  days 


A  Sympathetic  Strike  69 

in  the  week.  I  can't  feed  my  little  children  on 
nine  dollars,  let  alone  the  railway  fare  to  see 
my  wife,  poor  woman,  so  lonesome  among  all 
those  nuts.' 

"  I  got  pretty  hot.  I  went  to  the  boss,  and  I 
said,  '  What  you  want  to  lay  Baruch  off  for, 
poor  devil,  with  his  four  little  children  and  his 
wife  in  the  madhouse?  You  are  certainly  a  good 
Jew !  You  ought  to  be  out  in  the  cemetery  with 
a  marble  canopy  over  your  head,  where  the 
other  good  Jews  are.' 

"  '  You  Jew  yourself,  throwing  it  up  to  me,' 
he  yelled.  *  You  shut  up  or  I'll  lay  him  off  en- 
tirely !  If  you  had  any  business  in  you,  you'd 
see  I  got  to  cut  my  costs  in  these  slack  times. 
Here  I  got  expenses  of  two  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars  a  week.  Where  is  the  money  coming 
from?  You  tell  me,  you  smart  Jew.  How  many 
customers  did  Baruch  drag  in  to-day?  Three. 
And  what  did  I  sell  them?  One  twenty-cent  tie 
and  two  pair  of  Boston  garters/ 

" '  If  you  got  to  save  money,'  I  said,  '  why 
don't  you  lay  me  off?  Lay  me  off  two  days  and 
you'll  save  more  money  than  on  Baruch's  three 
days.  I  can  get  along.  Lay  me  off  three  days  if 
you  want  to.'  Then  I  began  to  get  excited. 


jo  A  Sympathetic  Strike 

'Hell,  lay  me  off  four  days,  five  days,  six  days! 
I  don't  want  to  work  for  a  good  Jew  like  you, 
that  takes  the  bread  out  of  a  poor  devil's  mouth 
because  he  is  in  trouble.' 

"  '  Yes,  see  if  you  can  get  another  job  these 
slack  times ! '  yelled  the  boss.  '  You'll  come  back 
here  to-night,  and  I'll  lay  you  off  three  days,  and 
fire  Baruch.' 

"  Well,  I  went  over  to  the  store  opposite,  and 
they  said,  '  Yes,  we'll  take  you,  same  pay.'  But 
I  don't  like  the  boss,  and  so  I  go  down  the  street 
to  another  store  and  they  say,  '  Times  are  slack, 
but  you  got  lots  of  customers  you  can  take  away 
from  Erismann :  we'll  take  you  on.'  I  make  up 
my  mind  to  see  what  I  can  do  in  other  stores,  and 
some  of  them  wanted  me  and  some  didn't.  At 
night  I  come  back  to  Erismann's  and  I  say  to  the 
boss: 

"  '  Boss,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  which  of  these 
six  jobs  I  got  offered  to  me  is  the  best?  ' 

'  Six  jobs ! '  he  yelled.  '  Yes,  you  got  six 
jobs !  Everybody  wanted  a  pocky  Jew  like  you, 
of  course.' 

"  '  There's  the  list/  I  said.  '  Call  them  up  if 
you  want  to.' 

"  The  boss  looked  at  my  list.    '  Say,  Leo,  what 


A  Sympathetic  Strike  71 

you  want  a  new  job  for?  Haven't  you  got  a  job 
enough  here?  Ain't  I  always  been  good  to 
you?  Don't  I  take  things  from  you  another  boss 
wouldn't  take?  ' 

"'How  about  Baruch?' 

"  '  Well,  I've  changed  my  mind  about  laying 
him  off.  Poor  devil,  with  his  four  little  children, 
and  wife  in  the  madhouse !  He  ain't  worth  much 
now,  but  I  guess  we  can  afford  it.' ' 

The  saloonkeeper  yawned.  Leo  threw  down  a 
Canada  dime  and  a  misshapen  nickel,  and  sham- 
bled out  into  the  darkness. 

"  Lord,"  said  the  saloonkeeper.  "  Ain't  it 
awful  to  have  to  listen  to  'em?  And  his  trade 
here  ain't  worth  fifty  cents  a  month." 


N 


IV 
The  Killing  of  Different  Man 

OT  that  he  was  so  very  unlike  you  or 


me,  even  if  he  was  a  Reservation  Indian, 
tried  and  found  guilty  of  murder  by  twelve  good 
men  and  true  (and  white),  and  lying  in  Minne- 
cadusa  jail  waiting  to  be  hanged.  When  his 
mother  first  opened  her  eyes  after  the  burst  of 
anguish  that  gave  him  light,  they  fell  upon  a 
man  other  than  one  she  had  expected  to  see. 
And  so  he  came  by  his  name  of  Different  Man, 
instead  of  Rainbow-on-the-Hill,  or  White-Faced 
Bull,  or  other  name  to  appeal  to  the  Indian 
amateurs  of  the  Eastern  seaboard. 

I  had  known  Different  Man  from  the  time  he 
was  a  gawky  boy  of  fourteen,  with  the  legs  of 
his  jeans  stopping  short  half-way  down  his  spare 
brown  calves.  He  never  amounted  to  much. 
He  would  come  into  my  store  and  try  to  get 
goods  on  credit,  especially  tobacco  and  New  Or- 
leans molasses.  He  had  a  sweet  tooth,  and  he 
would  stand  at  the  counter  and  beg:  "My 

72 


The  Killing  of  Different  Man         73 

uncle,  he  send  me  for  tobacco;  one-half  plug, 
Climax.  Please.  My  uncle,  he  sick,  must  have 
tobacco,  Climax.  He  pay  Monday;  he  come  to 
store.  One-half  plug,  Climax,  please." 

"  Go  'way,  you  trifler ;  you  haven't  got  any 
uncle.  Can't  get  any  tobacco  here.  Go  up  to 
my  house  and  chop  half  a  cord  of  wood.  I'll 
give  you  a  whole  plug  and  some  molasses,  too." 
His  jaw  would  drop  and  his  eyes  would  take  on 
a  sad  blue-black  hue.  He  hated  work  more  than 
he  loved  tobacco  and  molasses.  He  knew  I  kept 
a  pile  of  dry  ash  wood  especially  for  him.  He 
never  seemed  to  bear  a  grudge  against  me  for 
it,  though  one  day,  when  his  dog  snapped  at  me, 
he  said,  "  My  dog,  his  heart  is  bad  because  you 
won't  give  me  tobacco  for  my  uncle." 

Everybody,  Indian  and  white,  thought  he  was 
a  good-for-nothing,  but  that  didn't  trouble  Sun- 
shine-in-the-Eyes.  She  was  a  likely  girl,  not  so 
very  homely  when  you're  used  to  Indians.  Her 
mother,  a  frightful  old  squaw,  looked  higher, 
and  set  the  dogs  on  Different  Man  and  tore  him 
up  considerably.  He  was  not  discouraged,  how- 
ever, and  one  dark  night  he  crept  up  and  stole 
the  girl  right  out  of  the  hut  while  the  old  squaw 
slept.  He  hadn't  even  a  tepee  for  his  bride,  but 


74         The  Killing  of  Different  Man 

it  was  May,  and  they  lived  in  the  willows  for 
several  weeks.  When  June  rains  came  on  they 
would  sneak  into  town,  and  I  would  let  them 
have  a  blanket  for  the  night  in  the  back  of  my 
store. 

One  morning  Different  Man  left  the  girl  in 
the  store  and  went  to  the  other  end  of  the  town 
to  clean  out  a  stable.  He  wanted  to  earn  a  dol- 
lar to  pay  me  for  some  green  beads  Sunshine-in- 
the-Eyes  had  cajoled  out  of  me.  I  told  him  they 
were  a  gift,  but  he  would  not  have  it  so.  As 
soon  as  he  was  well  out  of  sight,  in  came  the  old 
squaw.  She  had  known  all  along  that  they  were 
coming  to  my  store,  though  they  had  thought 
they  were  making  a  successful  secret  of  it.  I 
told  the  squaw  the  girl  had  gone,  but  she  said  I 
lied,  and  started  to  go  through  the  store.  I  tried 
to  put  her  out,  but  whew!  And  such  a  scene  as 
there  was  when  she  dragged  her  daughter  from 
behind  the  flour  barrels!  Finally  the  girl  gave 
in  and  let  herself  be  led  down  to  the  river, 
where  her  mother  put  her  into  a  canoe  and 
slipped  off  down-stream.  Different  Man  came 
back  at  noon.  I  told  him  what  had  happened, 
and  he  crumpled  up  and  said,  "  My  heart  is 
bad."  I  gave  him  a  drink — it  wasn't  lawful,  of 


The  Killing  of  Different  Man         75 

course,  but  I  couldn't  help  it — and  he  started 
off  on  a  trot  down  the  river. 

About  a  week  later  I  heard  that  he  had  found 
them,  and  had  smashed  in  the  old  squaw's  skull 
with  a  club.  Next  day  the  officers  got  him  at 
a  dance.  He  had  a  fair  trial;  nothing  to  object 
to,  except  perhaps  that  they  brought  in  two  of 
his  enemies,  Black  Bull  and  Walking  Squirrel, 
to  testify  falsely  to  his  bad  character.  I  hoped 
they  would  let  him  off  with  life  imprisonment, 
considering  the  provocation,  but  the  law  wasn't 
taking  any  chances  with  bad  Indians.  So  he  was 
sentenced  to  be  hanged  between  the  loth  and 
25th  of  September.  I  suppose  they  put  it  in  that 
way  to  make  a  sheriff  earn  his  money.  How 
does  a  man  feel  when  he  gets  up  in  the  morning 
if  he  is  obliged  to  say  to  himself,  "  Well,  shall  I 
go  out  and  hang  him  this  morning,  or  shall  I  put 
it  off  till  to-morrow?  " 

On  the  24th  of  September  I  went  down  to 
Minnecadusa  on  business  and  put  up  at  the 
hotel.  That  evening  a  man  came  to  my  room 
and  introduced  himself  as  the  sheriff.  I  said  I 
didn't  know  that  I  cared  if  he  was  a  sheriff;  I 
hadn't  been  doing  anything  unlawful  recently. 
He  grinned  in  a  sickly  way  and  said  he  wanted 


76          The  Killing  of  Different  Man 

to  ask  a  favor  of  me.  He  understood  I'd  come 
from  the  Reservation  and  knew  most  of  the  In- 
dians ;  would  I  go  over  to  the  jail  with  him  and 
tell  Different  Man  it  was  going  to  be  the  next 
day?  I  didn't  like  it,  but  the  sheriff  was  plainly 
all  gone  to  pieces,  so  I  went.  Different  Man 
shouted  with  joy  as  I  entered  his  cell.  He  took 
my  hand  and  wouldn't  let  it  go,  and  inquired 
about  the  agency,  and  asked  how  my  wife  and 
babies  were — he  had  been  devoted  to  my  family. 
Then  he  said :  "  The  men  here  are  all  liars. 
They  have  two  tongues,  one  for  me  and  one  for 
themselves.  I  ask  them,  '  When  are  you  going 
to  kill  me?'  They  say,  'Pretty  soon,  maybe.' 
You  have  one  tongue,  Mr.  Spenser.  Tell  me, 
when  will  they  kill  me?" 

"  To-morrow,  Different  Man." 

"  Good." 

It  hadn't  been  so  very  difficult,  after  all.  I  re- 
turned to  the  hotel  and  went  to  bed,  but  I  wasn't 
very  sleepy,  so  I  got  up  and  lit  a  cigar  and 
started  in  on  an  old  Chicago  paper  I  found  in  my 
closet.  I  read  it  through  about  four  times  before 
I  began  to  feel  sleepy,  and  then  it  was  nearly 
morning.  I  was  just  dozing  off  when  there  was 
a  knock  at  my  door. 


The  Killing  of  Different  Man         77 

"Mr.  Spenser!  Say,  Mr.  Spenser!  I'm  going 
to  do  it  now.  Won't  you  please  come  along?  " 

"  For  God's  sake,"  I  said,  "  go  and  kill  your 
Indian  yourself.  It's  not  my  job." 

"  I'm  sick,  and  I  ain't  sure  I  can  get  through 
with  it.  I  never  hung  a  man.  I  wouldn't  have 
run  for  this  damn  office  if  I'd  thought  I'd  have 
to.  I've  tried  to  get  a  deputy,  but  there  ain't  a 
man  will  do  the  job." 

I  was  feeling  pretty  cross.  A  mighty  big  im- 
position, to  ask  that  sort  of  thing  of  a  perfect 
stranger.  But  I  knew  the  sheriff  would  stay 
around  until  I  came  out  of  my  room,  even  if  the 
execution  had  to  be  postponed  until  sundown. 
So  I  dressed,  took  a  nip  from  my  flask,  and  went 
out  into  the  hall.  The  sheriff  was  waiting,  all 
huddled  up  on  a  settee.  What  a  state  he  was  in ! 

When  we  got  to  the  jail  he  gave  me  the  key 
to  the  cell;  he  wanted  to  stay  in  the  fresh  air. 
As  I  opened  the  door  of  the  cell  Different  Man 
leaped  from  his  cot  and  greeted  me  gaily.  He 
was  smoking  a  cigar,  pulling  it  for  dear  life. 

"Have  you  come  to  kill  me?" 

"  Yes." 

He  took  the  cigar  from  his  lips  and  looked  at 
it  regretfully.  Two-thirds  unfinished,  and  life  so 


78          The  Killing  of  Different  Man 

short!  "Give  it  to  the  man  in  the  other  cell," 
he  said.  "  I  don't  need  it." 

"  Have  you  any  message  you  want  me  to  take, 
Different  Man?  Anything  you  want  to  leave  to 
anybody?  " 

The  Indian  reflected  a  moment.  "  Yes."  I 
sharpened  my  pencil. 

"  You,  Black  Bull,  you  big  liar,  you,  I  'queathe 
and  devise  to  you  one  section  good  land,  with 
house  and  barn  and  hay  land,  if  you  find  him. 
You,  Walking  Squirrel,  you  big  liar,  I  'queathe 
and  devise  to  you  one  two-horse  wagon  and  one 
span  mules,  if  you  find  him.  You,  Sunshine-in- 
the-Eyes,  you  left  me;  my  heart  is  bad.  I 
'queathe  and  devise  to  you  my  sorrel  pony,  and 
my  saddle  and  bridle.  My  heart  is  bad.  My 
head  is  good.  I  die." 

It  puzzled  Different  Man  that  I  should  take  so 
long  about  folding  up  a  bit  of  paper. 

"  Different  Man,"  I  said,  drawing  a  cord  from 
my  pocket,  "  the  sheriff  asked  me  to  tie  your 
hands  behind  your  back." 

"  All  right."  He  turned  his  back  to  me  and 
threw  back  his  arms,  firm  and  warm. 

"  Come  on,  now,"  I  said,  praying  that  the  busi- 
ness might  be  finished  before  I  reached  a  state 


The  Killing  of  Different  Man         79 

equivalent  to  the  sheriff's.  We  struck  across  the 
yard,  the  sheriff  falling  in  behind  us.  Different 
Man  ascended  the  steps  of  the  scaffold,  light  as  a 
bird.  I  helped  the  sheriff  to  mount  them. 

"  We've  got  to  tie  his  legs  together,"  whis- 
pered the  sheriff,  gasping.  "  Here,  take  this 
rope." 

I  wouldn't  touch  it.  The  sheriff  knelt  beside 
Different  Man  and  put  the  rope  around  his  legs. 
The  Indian  looked  down  in  grave  surprise. 
"Are  you  going  to  hang  me  by  the  feet?" 

"  No,"  I  explained.  "  We  have  to  tie  your 
legs  together  so  you  won't  kick  so.  It  looks 
awful,  you  know." 

"  Oh !  "  One  of  the  white  man's  peculiar  de- 
cencies, to  be  accepted  like  life  or  death. 

"  I  never  can  tie  that  damn  knot,"  wailed  the 
sheriff.  "  Please,  Mr.  Spenser " 

Well,  I  tied  the  knot.  Different  Man's  legs 
stood  like  bronze  columns  as  I  drew  the  rope 
about  them.  Mine  did  not. 

We  got  the  job  off,  somehow.  If  you  must 
know,  it  was  I  that  killed  Different  Man.  That 
worthless  sheriff  couldn't  get  the  mask  over  his 
head — a  perfectly  simple  operation  when  you're 
doing  it,  horrible  when  it's  done.  Next  there 


8o         The  Killing  of  Different  Man 

was  the  noose.  Of  course,  I  had  to  take  it  off  the 
sheriff's  hands.  Finally  I  had  to  spring  the 
trap,  and  had  to  hold  the  sheriff  from  jumping 
off  the  scaffold  as  I  did  it. 

I  don't  know  how  it  seems  to  you,  but  it  some- 
how doesn't  seem  right  to  me.  Did  I  execute 
Different  Man,  or  did  I  just  kill  him?  It  seems 
to  me  I  killed  him.  Maybe  it  wouldn't  seem  so 
hideous  to  me  if  I  had  killed  him  while  the  crime 
was  still  fresh  in  him  and  while  vengeance  was 
still  hot  in  my  heart.  But  after  three  months 
no  living  soul  had  a  thing  against  Different  Man, 
and  his  crime  had  had  time  to  ooze  out  of  him. 
He  was  again  just  the  same  Indian,  of  no  ac- 
count, trifling  but  square  enough,  that  I  had 
known  for  ten  years. 

And  maybe  it  would  seem  all  right  to  me  if  I 
had  been  a  duly  constituted  officer  of  the  law. 
If  that  sheriff  had  made  me  his  deputy — some- 
thing he  couldn't  possibly  have  done.  .  .  .  Sup- 
pose, though,  that  I  had  accepted  the  post  of 
deputy.  I  could  pretend  that  not  I,  but  the  law, 
killed  Different  Man.  But  as  it  is,  I  have  noth- 
ing whatever  to  hide  behind.  I  broke  the  neck 
of  a  man,  not  by  any  means  the  worst  man  I've 
known,  a  man  who  looked  upon  me  as  his  friend. 


The  Killing  of  Different  Man         81 

Why?  Just  to  oblige  another  man,  not  very 
much  of  a  man,  either;  a  man  I  had  never  seen 
before  that  September  evening,  and  never  want 
to  see  again. 


Forbidden   Fruit 

IF  you  could  spy  upon  Margaret  as  she  sits  in 
her  tiny  study,  a  deeply  serious,  widely  ac- 
claimed modern  book  open  before  her  on  the  leaf 
of  her  desk,  I  wonder  what  you  would  surmise — 
supposing,  that  is,  you  are  given  to  surmises 
about  women.  She  isn't  really  reading,  although 
the  stiff  words  of  the  page  print  themselves 
dimly  upon  her  consciousness,  along  with  the 
blacks  and  reds  of  the  mahogany  grain  of  her 
desk,  where  a  long  ray  of  December  sun  lights 
it  into  a  rich  glow.  Margaret's  brow  is  con- 
tracted in  thought  and  her  lips,  sweet  and  firm, 
appear  full  of  suppressed  emotion.  There  is  a 
deliciously  baffling  trace  of  color  in  her  pale 
cheeks,  a  color  which  seems  to  ebb  and  flow  with 
the  waves  of  her  thought.  She  sits  free  and  well 
poised  in  her  chair,  like  a  woman  with  unusual 
strength  of  body  and  activity  of  mind.  Her 
figure,  neither  slender  nor  full,  suggests  power, 
awaiting  the  summons  to  action.  From  some- 

82 


Forbidden  Fruit  83 

thing  about  the  cut  and  color  of  her  dress  and 
the  way  she  does  her  hair,  you  infer  that  her  age 
falls  in  the  early  forties.  But  another  glance 
and  you  dismiss  the  inference:  she  may  be 
twenty-five  or  thirty-five  or  forty :  it  is  all  one. 
She  is  woman,  life  and  strength  and  goodness, 
more  potential  than  actual.  She  is  woman 
eternal. 

But  now  the  street  door  opens  and  closes,  and 
a  slight,  habitual  cough  is  heard  in  the  reception 
hall.  Observe  the  subtle  change  that  takes  place 
in  Margaret.  The  glow  of  the  mahogany  grain 
dies  out  of  her  consciousness  and  the  color  out 
of  her  cheeks.  The  pose  of  free  strength  has 
fallen  from  her  body;  she  leans  half  wearily 
against  the  back  of  her  chair.  Her  lips  move 
pronouncing  the  dogmatic  nothings  of  the  page 
before  her.  Plainly,  she  is  forty  or  more,  and  a 
wife.  And  if  you  are  at  all  quick,  you  can  infer 
the  type  of  husband,  before  the  study  door  is 
gently  opened  and  he  stands  before  his  lady,  tall, 
spare,  a  kindly  light  in  his  dim  eyes,  an  enforced 
cheerfulness  of  voice  and  countenance.  He  is 
apparently  somewhat  older  than  his  wife,  not  so 
sound  of  constitution  nor  so  generous  of  spirit, 
but  a  good  soul  nevertheless.  He  wears  a 


Forbidden  Fruit 


general  professional  appearance,  which  narrows 
down  on  close  inspection  to  that  of  professor, 
probably,  on  closer  inspection  still,  professor  of 
science.  And  as  you  look  at  this  wedded  pair 
you  feel  the  mood  of  one  of  those  dim  days  in 
early  September,  when  the  summer  glory  has 
gone  out  of  the  foliage,  but  the  colors  of  autumn 
have  not  arrived. 

The  professor  strides  over-lithely  to  Mar- 
garet's side  and  kisses  her  cheek.  He  glances 
at  the  book,  "  '  Not  only  are  the  conscious  dis- 
criminations between  our  kinsesthetic  ideas  '  " 
— he  intones.  "  Very  deep,  very  deep,"  he  com- 
ments, with  a  tone  of  forced  raillery.  "  Am  I 
disturbing  you?  " 

"  No,  not  at  all,"  says  Margaret  languidly. 
But  the  professor  is  not  blind  enough  to  remain. 
He  remarks  cheerfully  on  some  pressing  work 
he  has  to  do  and  betakes  himself  off,  revealing 
his  unconfessed  dejection  only  by  that  slight  out- 
ward curve  in  the  small  of  the  back  which  in 
rigidly  self-drilled  persons  does  duty  for  an  in- 
finitude of  sighs. 

Now,  what  do  you  surmise  about  Margaret, 
supposing  you  are  given  to  surmises?  Whether 
she  would  admit  it  even  to  herself,  her  soul 


Forbidden  Fruit  85 

yearns  for  forbidden  fruit.  This  is  elementary. 
But  what  fruit?  That  is  where  canny  surmises 
go  astray. 

Margaret  is  not  disillusioned  of  her  husband 
the  professor.  They  climbed  the  hill  of  life  to- 
gether, and  she  would  not  forego  any  part  of 
the  experience  for  worlds,  not  the  painful  read- 
justment of  life  when  Helen,  their  daughter,  sud- 
denly changed  from  a  child  into  a  woman  and 
set  out  to  train  herself  for  a  career  in  a  distant 
city;  not  even  the  devastating  anguish  of  a  son 
born  in  hope,  reared  in.  joy  through  the  first 
year  of  inarticulate  wonder,  and  lost.  Neither 
would  Margaret  forego  for  worlds  the  final  com- 
munity of  the  journey  of  life,  descending  the 
hill  together.  But  the  vast  flat  space  between 
up  grade  and  down,  that  is  Margaret's  problem. 
It  used  to  be  that  there  was  only  a  breathing 
stage  between  the  time  when  a  woman  is  young 
and  the  time  when  she  is  old.  Modern  hygiene, 
the  modern  outlook  on  life,  have  extended  this 
stage  incredibly  into  a  wide  plateau.  At  forty  is 
not  one's  mind  as  alert,  one's  will  as  strong,  one's 
body  as  enduring  as  at  any  earlier  stage  in  life? 
And  need  one's  faculties,  one's  impulses  to  ac- 
tivity, decline  notably  before  seventy?  It  was 


86  Forbidden  Fruit 

not  so  with  Bernhardt,  nor  with  Terry,  nor  with 
a  long  array  of  distinguished  women  artists.  It 
is  not  so  with  the  average  man;  why  should  it 
be  with  the  average  woman?  But  thirty  years 
is  a  long  age  to  contemplate  for  one  whose  whole 
profession  consists  in  the  status  of  wife  in  a 
household  whence  the  last  birdlet  has  flown. 

"  You  are  all  worn  out,  my  dear,"  the  pro- 
fessor is  in  the  habit  of  insisting  sympathetically. 
"  Helen's  last  year  in  the  high  school  taxed  you 
more  than  you  realize.  Now  you  must  try  to 
rest."  Rest!  There  will  be  time  enough  for 
that  when  one  is  dead.  But  when  one  is  alive, 
when  in  fact  one  is  tingling,  quivering  with  life 
that  demands  expression,  what  is  the  meaning  of 
rest?  The  professor  is  not  so  stupid,  to  be  sure, 
as  to  advise  Margaret  to  sit  with  hands  folded, 
drinking  in  rest.  He  addresses  himself  very  seri- 
ously to  the  problem  of  finding  means  for  occu- 
pying Margaret's  time  restfully.  He  has  in- 
veigled her  into  some  honorary  office  connected 
with  a  sorority,  by  means  of  which  she  can  de- 
vote hours  and  hours  to  hearing  the  pseudo-con- 
fidences of  twenty  young  ladies  who  keep  their 
real  confidences  for  younger  ears.  He  presses 
her  to  attend  his  colleagues'  lectures  and  report 


Forbidden  Fruit  87 

on  them,  on  the  pretext  that  only  so  can  he  gain 
a  comprehensive  view  of  the  whole  course  of 
instruction.  He  brings  home  books,  books, 
books.  And  naturally  after  America  entered  the 
war,  the  professor  employed  all  the  craft  of  a 
politician  to  get  Margaret  on  one  committee  on 
war  work  after  another,  until  Margaret's  week 
was  nothing  but  a  succession  of  committee  meet- 
ings and  extra-committee  activities.  And  yet 
you  can  read  in  Margaret's  every  movement, 
Life  is  empty,  empty.  The  professor  can't  quite 
read  this,  but  he  lives  ill  at  ease.  Is  some  deeply 
hidden  malady  sapping  the  spirit  and  the  life  of 
his  beloved  wife?  The  medical  fraternity  of  the 
town  have  been  called  into  consultation,  but 
they  can  find  nothing.  But  suppose  he  had  ac- 
cess to  more  expert  medical  service,  would  the 
results  be  equally  negative?  Pity  the  poor  pro- 
fessor. There  is  nothing  in  the  world  more 
real  than  the  solicitude  that  gnaws  at  his 
heart. 

From  plague  and  fire  on  land,  from  wreck  at 
sea  and  from  unreasonable,  discontented  wives, 
good  Lord  deliver  us.  Thus  no  doubt  you  pray ; 
and  having  prayed,  let  us  return  to  Margaret, 
seated  before  her  desk,  her  eyes  absently  resting 


Forbidden  Fruit 


upon  the  selfsame  page  of  meaningless  profun- 
dities. Exactly  what  is  it  that  so  tyrannizes  over 
her  consciousness?  Yes,  to  be  sure,  a  human 
face. 

It  is  the  face  of  a  gentle  little  Italian  woman, 
Giulia  Pellerino,  who  lives  in  the  tumble-down 
cottage  beyond  the  lumber  yard.  Giulia's  is  a 
lovely  face,  oval,  olive  pale,  with  the  greatest, 
profoundest  eyes,  half  veiled  with  pain.  Cluster- 
ing about  the  face  of  Giulia  are  three  miraculous 
little  heads,  Pietro,  aged  three,  with  splendid 
black  curls  and  deep  violet  eyes;  Elena,  nearly 
two,  with  thinner  curls  and  larger,  darker  eyes, 
and  Giovanni,  three  months,  almost  all  eyes. 
Since  Giovanni  was  born  Giulia  has  not  been 
well.  She  ought  not  to  walk  about,  but  the  Pel- 
lerino budget  can  provide  neither  nurse  nor 
maid.  Pietro  senior  goes  to  his  work  early  and 
returns  late;  he  is  earning  some  money  and  sav- 
ing it;  he  has  a  keen  eye  to  the  future.  He  is 
kind  and  does  not  make  it  too  manifest  that  he 
considers  himself  a  very  unfortunate  man  to 
have  a  sickly  wife. 

"  Now,  if  I  could  put  in  a  trained  nurse  there 
and  keep  that  little  Italian  woman  in  bed,  and 
straighten  out  the  children's  diet,  and  bully  the 


Forbidden  Fruit 


husband  a  bit,  it  would  come  out  all  right,"  says 
Dr.  Baker,  Margaret's  medical  counselor. 

"  But  why  can't  I  do  all  those  things  without 
being  a  trained  nurse?  "  demands  Margaret. 

"  Because  you  are  nothing  to  such  people  but 
an  idle  woman  who  has  come  down  to  spy  and 
pry  and  regulate.  You  would  hurt  Giulia  more 
than  you'd  help  her.  You  have  to  have  profes- 
sional standing.  That  is  the  only  key  to  com- 
munication across  class  and  race  lines.  But  if 
you  had  it,  think  what  it  would  mean  to  people 
like  these.  What  a  nurse  you'd  make!  You'd 
save  me  a  dozen  lives  a  year." 

What  would  it  mean  to  Margaret?  That,  is 
what  she  has  been  thinking,  month  after  month. 
If  only  she  could!  All  her  life  desire  to  help 
has  been  her  ruling  passion.  To  devote  the  rest 
of  her  life  altogether  to  helpfulness  would  en- 
tirely solve  her  problem.  But  think  of  the 
obstacles ! 

In  the  first  place,  what  institution  wants  to 
train  women  of  forty?  There  are  just  as  many 
illusions  now  current  about  the  incapacity  of  the 
mature  woman  for  severe  training  as  used  to  be 
current  about  woman's  incapacity  in  general. 
Those  illusions  will  pass,  but  for  the  present 


90  Forbidden  Fruit 

there  is  a  difficult  road  for  any  woman  who  chal- 
lenges them,  and  Margaret  is  not  of  a  challeng- 
ing type. 

And,  then,  there  is  the  professor  to  think  of. 
He  is  broad-minded,  in  his  way,  and  sympa- 
thetic, but  his  conceptions  of  human  nature  are 
traditional.  If  Margaret  were  to  announce  her 
conviction  that  something  besides  conjugal  love 
is  needed  to  fill  up  a  woman's  life,  the  professor 
would  take  it  as  a  judgment  of  his  own  personal 
inadequacy.  So  would  the  community.  And 
would  it  be  right  for  Margaret  to  place  a  just 
and  kind  husband  in  so  humiliating  a  position, 
even  though  the  humiliation  springs  from  noth- 
ing but  illusions? 

If  what  Margaret  wanted  to  do  were  to  write, 
or  to  paint  pictures,  or  to  enact  significant  roles 
on  the  stage,  it  would  not  be  so  difficult  a  mat- 
ter. It  is  already  agreed  that  a  woman  may, 
without  repudiating  her  husband,  sacrifice  her 
home  life  to  such  ambitions.  But  to  make  the 
sacrifice  just  to  be  humbly  useful,  to  accept  a 
status  in  a  professional  hierarchy  supposed  to 
be  on  a  lower  plane  than  her  husband's — for 
this  there  is  not  sufficient  precedent.  As  well 
dismiss  the  thought  and  reconcile  herself  to  rest- 


Forbidden  Fruit  91 

ing  to  the  end  of  her  days,  or  to  making  pre- 
tense of  occupying  herself  with  the  innumerable 
amateur  social  and  charitable  activities  of  the 
community. 

If  only  her  husband  had  been  of  a  different 
temperament.  If  he  had  been  like  that  disagree- 
able college  mate  of  his,  Geoffrey  Blake,  obstrep- 
erous social  philosopher  at  large,  who  goes  about 
the  country,  proclaiming  the  most  fervent  ad- 
miration for  fair  women  and  the  most  profound 
contempt  for  their  tolerance  of  the  futility  of 
their  lives.  After  all,  Margaret  reflects,  is  not 
the  contempt  justified? 

The  door  opens  noiselessly  and  the  professor 
appears,  smiling. 

"  Guess  who's  in  town.  I've  invited  him  to 
come  to  dinner.  Geoffrey  Blake." 

"  Geoffrey  Blake?  I  don't  want  to  see  him!  " 
cries  Margaret  vehemently. 

The  professor  stares.  Margaret's  cheeks  be- 
gin to  glow,  and  a  disquieting  surmise  passes 
through  the  professor's  mind  like  a  flash  of  light- 
ning in  December. 

"  No,"  he  comments  to  himself.  "  It  can't  be 
that.  He's  such  a  brute.  But  yet,  psychology 
is  tricky.  Forbidden  fruit,  and  all  that." 


VI 
The  Lot  of  the  Inventor 

«r-pHIEVES!    Sharks!    Muttonheads !  " 

JL.  I  had  not  been  aware  of  my  companion, 
except  for  a  dim,  uninterested  recognition  of  the 
fact  that  a  tall  man,  very  Yankee  in  outline,  had 
remained  with  me  on  the  upper  deck  of  the 
Sound  boat  when  all  the  other  passengers  had 
fled  below  to  escape  a  few  drops  of  rain.  Solilo- 
quizing, however,  is  nearly  a  lost  art,  and  natu- 
rally excites  one's  attention.  I  turned  my  chair 
so  as  to  command  a  good  view  of  the  soliloquist, 
who  was  leaning  against  the  rail  and  looking 
toward  the  great  glow  of  light  on  the  western 
clouds  that  indicated  the  direction  of  New  York. 
"Thieves!  Scoundrels!  Idiots!" 
The  soliloquist's  voice  was  low,  and  I  could 
catch  only  the  words  of  special  emphasis.  Why 
should  a  man  be  hurling  such  epithets  at  the 
cloudy  halo  of  New  York?  Was  it  drink?  No. 
There  was  a  certain  erectness  in  the  man's  car- 
riage, a  certain  angularity  in  his  lines,  that  be- 


The  Lot  of  the  Inventor  93 

spoke  the  total  abstainer.  Was  it  a  woman? 
No.  His  face  had  the  texture  of  one  shaved  only 
once  a  week  and  his  clothes  were  such  as  are 
selected  by  men  who  find  difficulty  in  remember- 
ing that  there  are  women  in  the  universe.  Was 
he  a  bit  out  of  joint  mentally?  Apparently  not. 
He  had  a  very  fine,  smooth  brow,  an  aquiline 
nose  and  formidable  chin,  and  his  eyes  were  as 
round  and  gray  and  piercing  as  an  eagle's. 

"  Pirates !    Bandits !  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  I  ventured.  "  You 
seem  to  be  thinking  of  New  York.  I'm  inter- 
ested." 

He  turned  to  me  with  a  look  of  surprise. 
"  New  York?  Yes,  I  was  thinking  of  New  York. 
Den  of  spiders.  Old  fat  fellows;  they  sit  there 
and  spin  and  watch,  and  we  fool  flies  go  buzzing 
up  to  them  to  get  sucked  out.  That's  how  New 
York  lives." 

"Perhaps,"  I  replied  doubtfully.  "But  I've 
lived  in  New  York,  and  it  never  occurred  to  me 
I  was  a  spider." 

"  You  weren't.  You  were  just  one  of  the 
spider's  parasites.  That  is  the  way  with  most 
New  Yorkers.  Here  is  how  it  is.  New  York 
doesn't  produce  anything.  But  from  all  over  the 


94  The  Lot  of  the  Inventor 

country  men  who  have  found  means  of  produc- 
ing something — mines,  railway  projects,  inven- 
tions— come  in  a  steady  stream  to  New  York, 
to  get  robbed.  That's  where  your  big  fellows 
make  their  money.  Of  course  they  have  to  di- 
vide up  with  their  friends  and  relatives,  with 
the  politicians,  real-estate  men,  hotel  keepers 
and  such.  And  then  these  divide  up  with  fellows 
still  further  down,  who  have  to  dance  like  the 
dickens  to  get  their  shares,  and  think  they  earn 
them.  That's  you.  But  just  the  same,  all  the 
money  really  comes  from  those  muttonheads 
that  keep  coming  in  from  the  country  with  ideas, 
to  be  robbed.  That's  me." 

"  So  they  robbed  you?  " 

"  That's  just  what  they  did."  He  seated  him- 
self in  the  chair  beside  me.  "  Now,  I'll  tell  you 
just  how  they  did  it:  Maybe  you  can  learn  to  be 
a,  spider  yourself,  and  not  just  a  parasite.  Sup- 
pose you  have  an  idea  to  sell,  an  idea  with  mil- 
lions in  it,  and  you  can  prove  it.  You  have  a 
letter  from  your  local  banker  to,  say,  Mr.  Clin- 
ton. Says  Mr.  Clinton,  '  Sorry,  but  there's  too 
much  risk  in  your  proposition.  I'll  give  you  a 
card  to  Mr.  Schultz.'  It  takes  you  three  or  four 
days  to  find  Mr.  Schultz.  Says  Mr.  Schultz : 


The  Lot  of  the  Inventor  95 

'  Your  idea  may  have  something  in  it,  but  I  can't 
see  it.  But  I'll  make  an  appointment  for  you 
with  Mr.  Loewe.'  You're  a  week  in  finding  Mr. 
Loewe.  Says  Mr.  Loewe,  '  Excuse  me,  but  I  am 
terribly  pestered  with  cranks  who  think  they 
have  valuable  ideas.  But  I'll  give  you  just  one 
minute:  what  have  you  got  to  sell?  No,  don't 
go.  I'll  give  you  a  letter  to  Mr.  McGrath.'  In 
time  you  find  Mr.  McGrath.  He  hears  you 
through,  and  says  he  doesn't  see  how  he  can  do 
anything,  but  he'll  see  you  again  Monday  week, 
three  o'clock  sharp.  You  come  at  three,  and  he 
keeps  you  waiting  until  five.  He's  been  think- 
ing over  your  proposition,  he  says,  and  he's  a 
gambler,  he's  willing  to  take  a  chance,  even  if 
everybody  will  call  him  a  fool  for  doing  it.  So 
he  has  fixed  up  a  scheme,  with  bonds  and  first 
preferred  stock  and  second  preferred  and  com- 
mon and  God  knows  what  else;  all  you've 
got  to  do  is  to  put  down  your  name.  You're 
pretty  discouraged  by  this  time  and  ready  to 
take  anything.  You  come  away,  figuring  that 
your  idea  will  have  to  earn  nineteen  dollars  for 
McGrath  for  every  one  it  earns  for  you,  and 
McGrath  gets  his  nineteen  dollars  first.  That's 
rough,  but  when  you  begin  really  to  get  mad  is 


96  The  Lot  of  the  Inventor 

when  you  find  that  McGrath  and  Loewe  and 
Schultz  and  Clinton  are  partners,  and  have  run 
you  about  from  office  to  office  just  to  break  your 
spirit  and  lower  your  price." 

"  Still,"  I  objected,  "  these  men  are  putting 
up  their  money  and  if  the  project  fails  they  will 
suffer  a  material  loss.  All  you  will  actually  suf- 
fer is  the  disappointment  of  an  idea  proved 
worthless." 

"  There's  where  you're  entirely  wrong.  Why, 
I  spent  over  $100,000  on  the  preliminary  work. 
What  do  you  think  McGrath  and  the  rest  are 
putting  up?  Just  $50,000.  It's  a  million  dollar 
corporation,  but  the  idea  itself  has  to  make  up 
the  rest  of  the  capital.  I  get  half  a  million  of 
common  stock.  Come  on.  I'll  show  you  some- 
thing." 

I  followed  him  to  his  stateroom.  He  opened 
a  black  leather  bag  and  produced  a  handful  of 
little  square  samples  of  cloth.  "  What's  this 
one?" 

"  Some  kind  of  canvas,"  I  guessed. 

"What's  this?" 

"  Worsted."  I  plucked  at  the  threads  trying 
to  appear  expert.  "  Not  all  wool,  I  should 
judge." 


The  Lot  of  the  Inventor  97 

"  What's  this?  "  It  was  a  fine  white  cloth  and 
felt  gritty  as  you  rolled  it  between  your  fingers. 

"Irish  linen?" 

"And  this?"  It  was  the  most  gossamer-like 
fabric  I  had  ever  seen.  Silk,  of  course,  but 
what  kind? 

"  It  looks  very  much  like  a  Formosan  silk,"  I 
ventured. 

"  Well,  you're  wrong  on  all  of  them.  They're 
all  wood  pulp.  That's  the  idea  I've  been  trying 
to  sell." 

"  Why,  that's  impossible,"  I  replied.  "  Look 
at  these  ravelings.  They  are  natural  fiber,  that's 
plain.  You  couldn't  possibly  make  fibers  of  this 
strength  out  of  wood  pulp." 

"  And  why  not?  Can't  I  work  with  the  same 
molecular  material  nature  works  with?  I  can't 
arrange  it  in  cells,  but  can't  I  produce  a  molec- 
ular arrangement  having  equal  cohesive  power? 
Haven't  I  got  an  advantage  over  nature  in  the 
matter  of  binders?  I  can  use  any  that  gives  in- 
creased strength;  nature  has  to  limit  herself  to 
those  that  won't  kill  cell  growth.  That's  why 
I  can  make  a  stronger  and  finer  fiber  than  nature 
can  possibly  make."  He  handed  me  the  sample 
of  gossamer  texture.  "  Tear  it." 


The  Lot  of  the  Inventor 


I  tore  the  sample.  It  was  real  silk.  The  in- 
vention was  a  fake,  I  was  convinced. 

"How  cheap  can  you  make  these  fabrics?  "  I 
inquired  politely. 

"  The  woolen,  linen,  and  coarse  cottons  I  can 
make  for  almost  nothing.  You  see,  I  don't  have 
to  weave  them.  I  make  them  just  like  paper  and 
imitate  the  texture  of  cloth.  See  this  sample. 
Unravel  it  if  you  can." 

I  plucked  at  the  thread  ends  in  a  piece  of 
flannel.  They  refused  to  run  even  a  millimeter. 
I  tore  the  sample.  The  rent  followed  zigzag 
lines. 

"  Heavens !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  What  is  going  to 
happen  to  the  cotton  and  woolen  industries?  " 

"  Well,  I  had  figured  they'd  have  to  stop  plant- 
ing cotton.  Cotton  would  become  a  weed,  and 
those  farmers  down  South  would  be  thanking 
God  for  the  boll  weevil.  As  for  wool,  I  figured 
that  the  agricultural  colleges  would  have  to 
breed  up  a  naked  sheep.  But  those  New  York 
financiers  have  fixed  all  that.  They  aren't  going 
to  allow  me  to  make  any  of  the  cheap  stuffs. 
We're  going  to  concentrate  on  this  fine  cloth, 
which  is  dearer  than  silk.  They  don't  care  to 
make  good  warm  suits  so  cheap  that  poor  people 


The  Lot  of  the  Inventor  99 

would  never  need  to  go  cold  or  ragged.  No,  it's 
the  demand  of  the  rich  they  are  after,  and  to  get 
it,  we've  got  to  keep  my  invention  out  of  reach 
of  the  poor.  Dudes  will  get  thinner  socks,  fine 
ladies  will  get  thinner  waists  than  they've  ever 
worn  before.  And  that's  all  I've  accomplished, 
by  my  twenty  years  of  work.  Your  financiers 
have  turned  me  into  just  a  silk  worm." 

The  inventor  paused  dejectedly  for  a  moment. 
Then  his  face  brightened.  "  Well,  I  don't  care 
much  about  that  invention,  anyway.  I  can't 
keep  up  much  interest  in  an  invention,  once  it's 
done.  My  weakness.  I've  got  a  garret  full  of 
inventions  I've  never  even  tried  to  sell.  There's 
just  one  thing  in  the  world  I'm  interested  in,  and 
that's  leather." 

He  opened  his  bag  and  produced  a  long  strip 
of  black  leather.  "  What  do  you  think  of  that 
for  artificial  leather?" 

I  manipulated  the  strip  suspiciously. 

"  You've  given  me  the  wrong  sample,"  I  said. 
"  This  is  real  leather." 

"  What  makes  you  think  so?  " 

"  The  smell." 

"  Oh,  I  imitated  that.  When  I  first  made  this 
leather  it  was  odorless.  But  your  financiers  said 


ioo  The  Lot  of  the  Inventor 

that  wouldn't  do.  So  I  told  them  I  could  make 
it  smell  as  bad  as  they  pleased.  You  know  what 
this  smell  is?  Diluted  Russian  glue  and  que- 
bracho extract." 

I  bent  the  sample  and  twisted  it,  and,  by  per- 
mission, cut  off  a  corner  of  it,  without  arriving  at 
certainty. 

"  If  this  isn't  real  leather,"  I  said,  "  it's  a  won- 
derful invention.  It  would  deceive  anybody. 
But  will  it  wear?" 

"  Wear?  This  bag  is  made  of  it.  Look  at  it. 
I've  carried  it  around  for  three  years." 

I  took  the  bag  and  turned  it  round  and  round, 
looking  for  scratches  or  cracks.  Not  one.  It 
might  have  been  carried  around  for  three  years, 
but  there  seemed  to  be  no  reason  for  believing  it. 

"  You  must  handle  your  baggage  very  care- 
fully," I  said.  "  Now  if  I  were  to  smash  this  bag 
against  the  edge  of  the  door,  as  a  porter  might, 
the  leather  would  crack,  wouldn't  it?  " 

"I  don't  think  it  would.  No,  don't  try  it. 
You  probably  don't  see  many  men  of  my  kind, 
and  don't  realize  what  kind  of  chemical  com- 
pounds we're  likely  to  be  working  with  when 
we're  on  problems  like  this.  High  explosives,  a 
lot  of  them.  Let  me  tell  you  about  an  incident 


The  Lot  of  the  Inventor  101 

that  happened  to  me  six  years  ago.  I  went  down 
to  New  York  to  try  to  interest  the  financiers  in 
my  leather.  Of  course  they  wouldn't  believe  in 
it;  thought  they  could  buy  it  from  me  for  noth- 
ing. And  when  I  held  out  they  tried  to  find  all 
kinds  of  fault  with  it.  '  It's  too  brittle,  you 
couldn't  cover  a  square  corner  with  it,'  they'd 
say.  And  I'd  call  their  attention  to  my  bag. 
Well,  what  do  you  think?  One  of  those  impu- 
dent old  money  bags  walked  right  over  to  my 
bag  and  gave  it  a  kick.  Bang!  Off  went  his 
foot!  See,"  he  rolled  up  his  sleeve,  "here's 
where  the  heel  of  his  shoe  hit  me.  Well,  sir,  that 
set  me  back  years.  There  wasn't  a  financier 
that  would  let  me  come  near  him." 

"  It's  wonderful  how  those  financiers  hang  to- 
gether," I  remarked,  depositing  the  bag  very 
gently  on  the  floor  and  wishing  myself  far  away, 
on  dry  land. 

"Yes,  isn't  it?  If  they'd  given  me  a  chance, 
I'd  have  revolutionized  the  whole  leather  busi- 
ness by  this  time.  I  can  imitate  every  kind  of 
leather  there  is,  and  I  can  make  an  entirely  new 
product  as  superior  to  natural  leather  as  natural 
leather  is  superior  to  paper.  I  can  make  you  a 
pair  of  shoes,  without  seams,  for  twenty-five 


IO2  The  Lot  of  the  Inventor 

cents,  and  I  can  imitate  the  seams  for  a  fraction 
of  a  cent  more.  For  ten  cents  I  can  make  work- 
ing gloves  that  will  last  a  year  and  the  finest  kid 
gloves  for  twenty-five  cents.  But  do  you  sup- 
pose they  will  let  me  do  it?  " 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  I  admitted.  "  There  are 
the  cattlemen  and  the  beef  trust  and  the  shoe- 
machinery  trust  and  the  shoe  factories.  Your 
artificial  leather  would  produce  a  terrible  com- 
mercial crisis." 

"  Yes,  that's  what  they  say.  But  let  me  show 
you  something  they  do  let  me  make."  He  drew 
from  his  pocket  what  looked  like  a  handful  of 
little  buff  buttons.  On  closer  examination  I  saw 
that  they  were  leather  washers,  concave  on  one 
side,  and  nearly  hemispherical  on  the  other. 

"  What  do  they  use  those  for?  "  I  asked. 

"  Hanged  if  I  know.  I  was  working  on  a  ma- 
chine for  something  else  and  I  saw  it  would 
make  these  things.  So  I  ran  off  a  few  dozen  of 
them,  just  for  fun,  and  sent  them  around  to  my 
friends.  I  got  a  letter  from  a  big  concern  in 
New  York  asking  me  to  call  when  I  came  down. 
I  went  around  there  yesterday,  and  what  do  you 
think?  They  gave  me  $10,000  for  that  ma- 
chine." He  drew  from  his  bill  case  a  paper  for 


The  Lot  of  the  Inventor  103 

my  perusal.  It  was  the  contract  of  conveyance 
of  the  patent. 

"  Ten  thousand  dollars  for  a  machine  to  make 
these  little  things,"  I  reflected  aloud.  "  Real 
money?  Did  they  let  you  take  all  that  money 
away  from  New  York?  " 

"  That's  what  they  did.  You've  been  doubt- 
ing me  all  along,  just  like  a  financier.  You're 
in  doubt  about  that  money  now.  Do  you  know 
$1,000  bills  when  you  see  them?" 

"  My  hands  are  up,"  I  admitted.  "  Who  can 
doubt  a  man  who  carries  ten  of  these  bills  around 
in  his  pocket?  Still,  I  should  think  it  would  be 
easier  for  you  to  imitate  ten  thousand  dollars 
than  to  get  it  for  those  tiny  washers." 

The  inventor  rolled  the  washers  around  in  his 
palm.  "What  I've  got  in  here  "—he  tapped  his 
forehead — "  is  the  clothing  and  shoes  of  the 
world.  What  they  let  me  make  is  a  little  thing 
like  this,  good  for  God  knows  what.  Queer,  isn't 
it,  that  this  is  all  the  use  they  can  find  for  a 
man  like  me." 

I  rose.  Suddenly  the  cloud  passed  from  the 
inventor's  face  and  he  was  again  erect,  buoyant. 

"  Come  and  see  me  in  Boston.  I'll  show  you 
something  superb.  It's  a  motor.  Those  French- 


IO4  The  Lot  of  the  Inventor 

men  think  they've  got  miracles  of  motors  on 
their  aeroplanes.  Wait  till  they  see  mine;  the 
best  motors  they've  got  will  be  junk.  Say,  she's 
a  beauty!  She  generates  twice  the  power  and 
weighs  half  as  much." 

"  But  they  won't  let  you  make  it,"  I  suggested 
pessimistically. 

"  That's  where  you're  wrong.  I'm  not  touch- 
ing your  financiers.  I  don't  have  to:  I've  got 
the  British  government  on  the  string.  There'll 
be  no  monkey  business  this  time.  It's  for  use  in 
war." 


VII 
After  the  Penitentiary 

"TAILBIRDS  have  no  call  to  kick."  That  is 
I  what  the  editor  of  the  Thompsonville 
Courier  said  to  me  when  I  offered  to  let  his  read- 
ers knows  how  a  dead  middle-western  village 
seems  to  a  graduate  from  an  up-to-date  peniten- 
tiary. It  may  be  that  you  feel  the  same  way 
as  the  editor.  When  I  confess  to  four  years  be- 
hind me  "  in  the  service  of  the  state,"  you'll  be 
justified  in  inferring  that  it  was  for  something 
pretty  crooked.  I  am  twenty-three ;  so  you  may 
be  sure  my  lawyer  played  up  my  extreme  youth 
to  the  best  of  his  ability.  Also,  I  got  the  bene- 
fit of  the  usual  sentimentalism  about  neglected 
childhood,  the  force  of  circumstances,  and  social 
responsibility.  When  the  judge  slapped  four 
years  on  me,  I  felt  I  was  getting  off  rather  easy. 
I'd  been  a  bad  egg,  and  for  all  you  know  I  may 
still  be  a  bad  egg.  I  never  was  a  liar,  though, 
or  a  romancer.  And  so  you  can  take  my  account 
of  Thompsonville  as  something  just  as  near  the 
truth  as  I  can  make  it. 

105 


io6  After  the  Penitentiary 

When  you  first  strike  Thompsonville,  you 
think  it  is  the  sweetest  place  in  the  world.  It  is 
at  the  end  of  a  branch  line,  and  there  is  one  ac- 
commodation train  every  day  except  Sunday. 
For  the  rest  of  the  time  the  old  town  can  sleep, 
for  all  anybody  cares,  in  the  bend  of  its  little 
river,  with  deep  pools  where  you  catch  the  cat- 
fish with  your  hands,  when  the  water  is  low. 
The  streets  are  roofed  over  with  the  branches 
of  maple  and  sycamore  trees,  and  the  houses, 
mostly  one  story,  with  bay  windows  and  kitchen 
ells,  stand  in  a  green  twilight.  The  sun  doesn't 
get  into  the  town  at  all  except  on  Main  Street, 
where  the  farm  horses  have  gnawed  the  bark 
off  the  trees  in  front  of  the  grocery  stores  and 
the  blacksmith  shop.  The  elms  and  sycamores 
follow  the  highways  out  into  the  country  and 
down  the  lanes  to  the  farm-houses  and  barns, 
which  they  smother  with  their  branches.  All 
the  people  here,  except  those  who  have  to  work 
in  the  fields,  look  pale  and  pudgy,  like  the  boys 
in  the  penitentiary  in  the  days  of  the  cell  system. 
There's  a  lot  of  sickness  here,  too.  A  man  from 
a  well-run  penitentiary  wouldn't  dare  to  live  in 
one  of  those  dark,  musty  houses  on  River  Street, 
or  even  in  one  of  the  older  farm-houses.  For- 


After  the  Penitentiary  107 

tunately  for  me,  my  friend  the  philanthropist 
who  planted  me  here  to  be  redeemed,  got  me  a 
job  on  a  rather  new  farm  near  the  village,  where 
the  shade  trees  haven't  had  time  to  grow  very 
large.  The  sun  gets  into  my  windows  in  the 
morning.  It  might  be  there  all  day  if  the  farm- 
er's wife  didn't  come  in  as  soon  as  I'm  out  at 
work,  and  close  the  blinds  and  draw  the  shades. 
Thompsonville  hates  the  sun. 

My  employer,  Mr.  Harding,  is  one  of  the  best- 
hearted  men  you  ever  saw,  and  I  don't  believe 
there  is  a  kinder  woman  in  the  world  than  his 
wife.  They  are  both  about  fifty  and  never  had 
any  children.  They  promised  the  philanthropist 
to  treat  me  like  a  son,  and  that  is  exactly  how 
they  have  treated  me.  They  never  refer  to  my 
past,  and  do  their  best  to  discourage  me  from 
referring  to  it.  They  had  intended  to  keep  it 
entirely  dark,  and  were  unhappy  when  they 
found  that  I  had  let  it  out.  They  run  a  mixed 
farm,  and  try  to  raise  almost  everything,  a  little 
corn,  a  few  potatoes,  a  little  garden  stuff,  some 
cows,  pigs  and  chickens.  It  is  a  fussy,  fritter- 
ing kind  of  business.  On  Mr.  Harding's  farm 
you  get  up  before  the  sun  and  wake  up  the  cows 
to  milk  them.  Then  you  go  around  and  wake  up 


io8  After  the  Penitentiary 

the  horses  and  the  pigs  to  feed  them.  You  eat 
breakfast  before  you  are  entirely  awake  your- 
self, and  then  go  out  into  the  field  and  work  a 
little  while  at  one  thing  and  a  little  while  at 
another.  In  that  way  you  fill  up  a  very  long 
day,  never  doing  any  real  work.  At  the  peni- 
tentiary they  tried  to  teach  us  to  work  hard 
while  we  were  at  it.  Our  boss  made  us  see  that 
work  isn't  very  tiresome  if  you  make  real  prog- 
ress with  what  you  are  doing.  Mr.  Harding  has 
just  the  opposite  view.  Whenever  he  catches  me 
swinging  my  hoe  or  ax  as  if  I  wanted  to  get  the 
work  done,  he  gives  me  a  little  sermon  about 
haste  making  waste.  I've  discovered  that  he 
thinks  of  work  as  something  made  chiefly  to  fill 
up  the  time.  So  we  keep  going  from  five  in 
the  morning  until  nine  at  night,  spinning  out 
work  we  could  easily  do  in  eight  hours.  The 
other  farmers  around  Thompsonville  do  just  the 
same  thing,  and  so  do  the  better  families  down 
in  the  village.  They  think  it  keeps  them  out  of 
mischief. 

When  Mr.  Harding  and  I  work  side  by  side, 
hoeing  corn  or  milking  cows,  we  hardly  ever 
find  a  word  to  say.  Mr.  Harding  never  heard 
of  sociology  and  doesn't  want  to  hear  of  it.  He 


After  the  Penitentiary  109 

won't  talk  religion  because  he  thinks  everybody 
has  a  right  to  his  own  religion,  and  he  won't 
talk  politics  because  he  thinks  nobody  knows 
anything  about  it  except  what  the  newspapers 
say,  and  they  are  full  of  lies.  He  won't  even 
gossip ;  it's  against  his  principles.  Mrs.  Harding 
is  the  same  way,  and  at  meals  we  never  say  any- 
thing but  "  Pass  the  molasses,  please,"  or  "  How 
do  you  like  this  coffee?  It's  two  cents  cheaper." 
For  a  man  who  has  been  through  a  modern  peni- 
tentiary, this  is  living  like  the  dumb  brutes.  In 
the  penitentiary  we  were  always  talking  about 
something  interesting.  We  had  theories  about 
personal  responsibility  for  crime,  about  the  in- 
fluence of  environment,  what  the  state  ought 
to  do  to  keep  young  fellows  out  of  crime,  and 
what  it  could  do  with  us  after  we  had  served  our 
time.  Of  course  there  were  some  fellows  with 
funny  ideas,  like  Reddy  McMahon,  who  thought 
the  federal  government  ought  to  regulate  the 
locksmith's  trade,  so  there  wouldn't  be  so  many 
easy  locks  to  tempt  poor  boys,  and  Shorty 
Higgs,  who  argued  that  they  ought  to  hang  a 
few  pickpockets  on  the  main  street,  as  an  ex- 
ample to  beginners.  But  there  were  lots  of  good 
ideas  floating  round  the  penitentiary.  We  knew 


1 10  After  the  Penitentiary 

pretty  well  what  they  do  with  our  likes  in  Eng- 
land and  Sweden  and  Siberia,  and  how  the  courts 
manage  things  in  France  and  Italy,  and  how  the 
military  settle  their  crooks. 

Not  that  there  isn't  talking  enough  going  on 
down  in  the  village.  There  is  all  the  gossip  you 
care  to  hear,  but  it's  dreadfully  uninteresting  if 
you  haven't  known  the  people  all  their  lives. 
The  farmers  come  in  every  Saturday  and  argue 
by  the  hour  as  to  which  are  better,  Holstein  or 
Shorthorn  cattle,  yellow-dent  corn  or  Great 
Southern  White.  They  never  get  anywhere 
with  their  arguments.  Nobody  listens  to  any 
one  but  himself.  Mr.  Harding  is  just  as  much 
set  in  his  ways  as  any  of  them.  I've  sometimes 
offered  suggestions  as  to  how  we  could  improve 
our  farming,  but  Mr.  Harding  always  freezes  me 
out.  It  was  very  different  at  the  penitentiary. 
There  they  were  ready  to  listen  to  suggestions 
for  improving  the  work.  Even  if  the  suggestions 
weren't  practical,  they  showed  that  the  boys 
were  thinking,  progressive. 

When  my  friend  the  philanthropist  told  me 
about  the  place  he  had  found  for  me  down  here 
in  Thompsonville  he  warned  me  that  things 
would  seem  dull  and  slow,  at  first.  "  But  you'll 


After  the  Penitentiary  in 

find  the  tone  of  the  place  sweet,  pure,  whole- 
some." That  was  the  way  it  looked  to  me  at 
first,  and  I  was  afraid  I  might  corrupt  the  town, 
with  my  penitentiary-made  ideas.  But  now  I'm 
not  so  sure  that  the  moral  tone  of  the  penitenti- 
ary wasn't  higher,  on  the  whole.  We  had  lived 
pretty  rough  lives,  but  we  knew  what  wrong  is, 
and  were  taking  our  punishment  for  it.  We 
knew  when  we  were  shirking  and  lying,  and  gen- 
erally we  were  ashamed  of  it.  Some  of  us  ex- 
pected to  take  up  the  old  life  when  we  got  out, 
but  we  were  ready  to  accept  the  consequences. 
The  young  fellows  I  meet  here,  around  town  or 
under  the  willows  by  the  fishing  pools,  have  a 
lot  of  talk  that  would  surprise  you.  To  listen 
to  it,  you'd  say  there  isn't  anything  they  would- 
n't do  if  they  could  get  away  without  penalties. 
They  have  the  imagination  of  horrible  crooks; 
all  they  lack  is  the  nerve.  At  the  penitentiary 
we  made  a  big  difference  between  the  persons  we 
respected  and  those  we  didn't.  We  could  tell  an 
honest  man  as  soon  as  we  laid  eyes  on  him,  and 
whether  he  liked  us  or  not,  we  never  had  any- 
thing to  say  about  him  he  wouldn't  have  been 
willing  to  hear.  And  as  for  women,  if  any  of 
the  fellows  had  dared  to  say  a  word  against  one 


H2  After  the  Penitentiary 

we  respected,  like  the  superintendent's  wife, 
we'd  have  knocked  his  head  off.  These  Thomp- 
sonville  boys  don't  respect  anybody,  least  of  all 
women.  Maybe  you  think  I've  got  .a  grudge 
against  these  boys  because  they  don't  take  to 
me.  But  they  do  take  to  me.  Some  one  of  them 
is  always  running  in  to  get  me  to  come  out  to 
some  party  or  fishing  trip.  Mr.  Harding  doesn't 
like  it;  he's  actually  afraid  they  will  corrupt  me. 
He  considers  them  a  terribly  bad  lot.  The 
Thompsonville  young  men  used  to  be  all  right, 
he  says,  but  after  the  railway  came  in,  every 
boy  who  was  good  for  anything  went  down 
to  the  city  to  make  his  fortune.  The  boys  who 
have  stayed  here  are  just  leavings,  without 
brains  or  ambition,  and  having  nobody  better 
than  themselves  to  associate  with,  they  get 
worse  and  worse. 

There  are  about  twice  as  many  girls  as  boys 
in  Thompsonville,  and  they  look  to  me  like  a 
different  race.  They  are  quiet  and  sweet  and 
seem  rather  sad.  Mr.  Harding  says  there  aren't 
finer  girls  anywhere,  and  I  believe  him.  Of 
course  I  don't  know  them;  I  feel  that  they 
wouldn't  want  to  be  acquainted  with  a  man  of 
a  record  like  mine.  It  might  spoil  their  chances 


After  the  Penitentiary  113 

— though  God  knows  what  their  chances  are 
here.  .  .  .  There  is  one  I  know  pretty  well.  I 
deliver  vegetables  at  her  house,  and  I  spend  a 
good  deal  more  time  talking  to  her  than  is  nec- 
essary. She  is  very  nice  to  me;  she  thinks  I 
would  never  have  got  into  trouble  if  I  had  had 
a  good  woman's  influence.  Maybe  so;  I  cer- 
tainly don't  feel  very  set  up  over  my  past  life 
when  I'm  talking  to  her.  She  is  a  favorite  with 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Harding.  They  have  hinted  that 
if  I  marry  and  settle  down  here,  I'd  get  their 
farm  after  they  die.  When  it  dawned  on  me 
they  might  be  driving  at  something,  I  got  rather 
scared.  Me  married  and  settled  down?  With 
my  record,  I'm  not  good  enough.  And  besides, 
after  a  while  I  might  come  to  look  on  Thomp- 
sonville  as  a  kind  of  life-term. 

I'm  still  for  prison  reform,  but  it  seems  to  me 
now  that  there  is  more  need  for  reforming  the 
Thompsonvilles.  Somebody  like  Tom  Osborne 
ought  to  make  his  home  in  each  of  these  little 
old  villages,  let  in  the  sun  and  systematize  the 
work,  and  let  loose  a  few  ideas  for  the  young 
fellows  to  try  their  minds  on.  You  can  never 
make  very  much  out  of  a  penitentiary.  At  best, 
the  boys  who  come  out  will  be  rather  a  bad  lot. 


114  After  the  Penitentiary 

But  a  place  like  Thompsonville,  where  every- 
body could  have  all  the  food  and  air  and  sun  he 
needs,  could  be  made  into  a  kind  of  little  Heaven, 
under  its  swaying  treetops  in  the  bend  of  the 
shining  river. 


VIII 

Short  Change 

SQUARE  white  tents  in  twelve  double  rows 
on  a  sparsely  wooded  hilltop;  soldiers  in 
blue  uniforms  at  attention  while  the  bugle  sounds 
the  retreat,  repeated  in  an  instant  from  across 
a  little  valley  where  another  regiment  stands  at 
attention  among  its  white  tents,  repeated  again 
and  again  in  notes  fainter  and  yet  fainter  from 
over  the  hills  on  all  sides :  a  military  encamp- 
ment, as  you  would  surmise,  of  twenty  years 
ago,  when  nobody  knew  anything  about  visi- 
bility or  sanitation  or  morale,  when  arms  and 
the  manual  and  the  regimental  organization 
were  other  than  they  are  now,  and  nothing  the 
same  but  human  nature. 

We  had  fallen  out  and  were  lounging  before 
our  tents  when  a  strange  soldier  from  another 
regiment  passed  rapidly  down  the  company 
street. 

"  There'll  be  some  fun  at  the  sutler's  shack, 
just  before  taps,"  he  remarked,  to  no  one  in  par- 

"5 


n6  Short  Change 

ticular.  Twenty  paces  further  on  he  repeated 
his  statement,  mechanically,  and  we  heard  him 
repeat  it  once  more  as  he  passed  by  the  mess 
tent  on  his  way  to  another  company. 

"Say,  did  you  hear  what  that  fellow  said?" 
cried  the  cook,  thrusting  out  his  head  from  be- 
tween the  flaps  of  the  mess  tent. 

"  Oh,  shut  up !  "  said  the  first  sergeant.  "  You 
fellows  have  got  to  stay  right  here.  Mind,  I'm 
watchin'  ye.  The  first  fellow  that  leaves  the 
company  street  '11  get  reported." 

"What  do  you  think?"  murmured  my  tent- 
mate  Buck,  an  eager  boy,  enlisted  under  age. 
"  They've  been  talking  of  running  the  sutler 
out." 

"  Nothing  to  it,"  I  asserted.  "  They  wouldn't 
dare.  Anyway,  you  and  I  are  going  to  keep  out 
of  it." 

"  Well,  all  right.    But  damn  the  sutler." 

"  Amen,"  I  agreed.  It  was  two  weeks  beyond 
pay  day,  and  not  a  soul  in  the  company  had  any 
money  left.  The  sutler  had  garnered  it  all. 
What  could  you  expect?  After  two  hours'  drill 
on  a  sweating  morning,  one  had  to  drink,  but 
not,  if  he  could  help  it,  the  tepid  water  in  the 
company  barrel,  tasting  of  vegetable  mold  and 


Short  Change  117 

vinegar  soaked  wood.  At  the  sutler's  were  to  be 
had  lemonade,  passably  cool  and  refreshing  even 
if  it  was  made  without  lemons,  bottled  soft 
drinks  and  a  marvelous  beverage  known  as 
blackberry  bounce  which  made  a  total  abstainer 
grotesquely  gay.  Until  the  pay  ran  out  the  sut- 
ler was  confronted  from  morning  till  night  with 
thirsty  and  hungry  soldiers,  sometimes  in  ranks 
ten  deep.  And  from  morning  till  night  an  ugly 
quarrel  was  going  on  over  his  counter. 

"  Here,  you  damn  dago,  I  gave  you  a  dollar. 
Where's  my  change?" 

"  No,  no,  you  gave  me  fi'  cents." 

"You're  lying.  Give  me  my  change  or  I'll 
knock  your  damn  head  off." 

The  sutler  would  shrug  his  shoulders  and 
serve  another  row  of  customers.  If  the  trouble 
maker  was  very  persistent,  the  sutler  would 
shell  out  change  with  a  poisonous  gesture.  He 
was  an  Armenian,  and  no  doubt  had  learned  in 
the  trade  with  the  Kurds  how  far  one  may  defy, 
how  far  one  must  compromise  with  violence. 
Current  report  was  that  the  sutler  made  a  regu- 
lar practice  of  short  change,  but  there  was  a 
strong  minority  opinion  that  this  report  was 
eight-tenths  pure  fabrication  and  one-tenth 


1 1 8  Short  Change 

founded  on  mistake.  Several  men  in  my  com- 
pany boasted  of  their  success  in  getting  drinks 
for  nothing  and  bullying  the  sutler  out  of  change 
besides.  Probably  someone  else  suffered  for 
it.  Anyway,  the  sutler  was  bound  to  win  out 
in  the  end;  if  his  customers  occasionally  cheated 
him,  he  nevertheless  got  the  money  back  in 
trade.  Inevitably  he  was  cordially  detested. 

The  sutler's  shack  stood  in  a  clearing  about 
equidistant  from  the  four  regimental  camps  on 
which  he  preyed.  It  was  a  long,  half-gable  shed, 
solidly  backed  with  oak  planks  set  vertically 
and  equipped  with  iron  braced  shutters  to  let 
down  over  the  counter  at  night.  In  a  tree  be- 
fore the  shack  the  sutler  kept  a  gasoline  torch 
flaring  all  night,  and  he  was  so  apprehensive  that 
one  could  hardly  step  within  the  flickering  circle 
of  its  light  without  the  sutler  appearing  in  the 
doorway,  his  right  hand  behind  his  back. 

The  dusk  was  growing  heavy.  I  was  prepar- 
ing to  turn  in,  when  Buck,  who  had  been  mak- 
ing a  call  on  a  neighboring  company,  thrust  his 
head  into  the  tent. 

"  Say,"  he  whispered.  "  There  aren't  ten  men 
in  D  company's  tents.  Our  boys  are  all  gone, 
too.  Let's  get  out  before  the  officers  catch  on." 


Short  Change  119 

"They're  all  crazy,"  I  grumbled.  "  They*!! 
drill  us  to  death  to-morrow,  for  this." 

"  Come  on !  "  cried  Buck,  tugging  at  my  belt. 

I  blew  out  my  light  and  stepped  out  of  the 
tent.  Men  from  other  companies  were  stealthily 
slipping  through  between  the  tents,  headed  for 
the  sutler's.  I  caught  some  of  Buck's  eagerness 
and  in  a  moment  we  too  were  slipping  between 
tents  in  the  darkness.  Beyond  the  camp  we 
issued  upon  a  trail,  now  quite  packed  with  dark 
figures. 

"  Hullo,"  sounded  a  strange  voice  in  my  ear. 
"  Did  he  short  change  you?  " 

"  No,"  I  replied.  "  I  never  trusted  him  to 
make  change." 

"  You  were  smart.  I  don't  know  another  man 
he  hasn't  skinned, — You're  Peters,  M  company, 
aren't  you?  " 

"  No.     C  company. 

"Oh,  I  mistook  you.     Gosh!    Hear 'em?" 

I  caught  a  confused  wave  of  sound,  shouting 
interspersed  with  shrill  whistles.  We  began  to 
run. 

In  the  clearing,  under  the  flickering  gasoline 
torch,  hundreds  of  men  were  packed  about  the 
front  of  the  sutler's  shack.  The  Armenian  stood 


I2O  Short  Change 

in  his  doorway,  pale  but  imperturbable,  his  eyes 
glaring  fiercely,  his  thick  lips  curving  in  a  nerv- 
ous smile.  The  crowd  was  keeping  its  distance, 
as  word  had  passed  back  from  the  front  that  the 
sutler  had  his  finger  on  the  trigger  of  a  six- 
shooter.  We  were  after  fun,  not  shooting,  and 
it  was  enough  to  hurl  imprecations  at  him. 
When  Buck  and  I  arrived,  the  spirit  of  the  crowd 
was  good  humored,  for  the  most  part,  but  oc- 
casionally one  could  perceive  a  note  of  real  ha- 
tred. What  seemed  like  a  deliberate  competi- 
tion in  imprecations  got  in  motion,  and  the  more 
violent  curses  gained  rapidly  over  the  milder 
ones.  The  character  of  the  voices,  too,  began 
to  change :  the  original  miscellaneous  clamor 
split  into  two  well  defined  currents  of  deep  notes 
and  high  that  would  occasionally  reinforce  each 
other  and  make  one  thrill  unaccountably.  The 
crowd  was  pressing  closer.  The  Armenian  still 
kept  his  nerve,  but  the  movements  of  his  head 
were  becoming  spasmodic.  It  was  still  fun  with 
us,  but  the  idea  that  it  was  serious  was  visibly 
gaining  on  the  Armenian. 

"  Poor  devil,"  I  thought,  "  this  has  been  car- 
ried about  far  enough."  And  then  a  new  baying 
note  rose  from  the  mob,  a  note  I  had  not  sup- 


Short  Change  121 

posed  to  be  within  the  range  of  the  human  voice. 
I  shivered,  and  as  I  glanced  again  at  the  Ar- 
menian, darting  his  eyes  from  one  quarter  to 
another  in  suppressed  panic,  I  felt  my  pity  slip 
from  me.  I  began  to  exult,  like  a  hunter  who 
has  found  a  wild  animal  in  a  trap,  to  finish  at 
leisure.  "Kill  the  damn  thief!  Kill  the  damn 
dago!"  the  crowd  was  yelling.  It  thrilled! 

There  was  a  lull :  something  was  going  on  that 
we  in  the  center  could  only  divine.  Above  the 
fnutterings,  subdued  for  the  moment,  we  heard 
a  sound  like  the  splitting  of  a  timber.  Word 
passed  from  the  flanks  of  the  crowd,  "  They've 
pried  out  a  plank  behind."  The  Armenian 
turned  to  look  back  into  his  shack;  his  jaw 
dropped;  his  thin  acquisitive  profile  quivered; 
the  white  of  his  eye  seemed  to  glaze.  A  sharp 
pebble  hurled  from  behind  him  struck  him  just 
below  the  cheekbone :  it  clung  for  a  second, 
like  a  hideous  black  growth,  then  dropped, 
thrust  out  by  a  jet  of  blood.  A  mantle  of  frenzy 
fell  upon  the  mob.  An  atrocious  roar  arose,  car- 
rying on  its  waves  all  the  obscenities  and  blas- 
phemies known  to  young  America. 

"Kill  the  damn  Jew!  Kill  the  God  damn 
Nigger!" 


122  Short  Change 

The  mob  surged  forward :  all  around  me  men 
wedged  between  converging  lines  of  force  were 
crying  out  that  they  were  being  crushed.  The 
Armenian  darted  into  his  shack,  snapping  the 
door  to  in  the  face  of  a  dozen  men  springing  for 
him.  They  beat  and  pushed  at  the  door  while 
a  hundred  others  thrust  their  weight  against 
the  counter  shutters.  The  shack  was  rocking 
on  its  foundations;  another  thrust,  and  over 
she'd  go.  Suddenly  I  became  conscious  of  a 
weakening  of  the  pressure  from  behind  me;  of 
a  subsidence  of  the  volume  of  yells,  of  a  subtle 
change  in  the  quality  of  the  sound.  Did  I  merely 
imagine  that  I  had  heard  a  sharp  "Halt!"  at 
my  left?  I  stood  on  tiptoe,  to  look  over  the 
heads  of  the  men  about  me.  Through  an  open- 
ing produced  by  an  accidental  grouping  of 
shorter  men,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  long  line 
of  men  in  khaki,  springing  from  the  darkness  to 
the  rear,  passing  across  the  lighted  circle,  and 
into  the  darkness  beyond,  within  which  by  strain- 
ing one  seemed  to  distinguish  the  dull  gleam  of 
rifle  barrels  and  belt  buckles,  extending  inter- 
minably. 

"  Fix  bayonets !  "  sounded  the  command,  dis- 
tinctly. 


Short  Change  123 

"  The  regulars !  "  murmured  voices  all  around 
me.  In  an  instant  we  were  rushing  across  the 
lighted  space,  in  a  panic  as  infectious  and  as 
blind  and  overpowering  as  our  rage  of  a  moment 
past.  Everywhere  the  woods  resounded  with 
the  steps  of  running  men.  I  lost  Buck,  and  ran 
wildly,  without  sense  of  direction,  until  my 
breath  was  gone.  Over  the  comb  of  a  little  hill 
I  paused  to  gather  my  wits,  only  to  be  run  down 
by  a  group  of  men  who  had  clung  together  in 
their  abject  panic.  I  picked  myself  up,  bruised 
and  still  more  dazed,  and  began  to  run  away  at 
right  angles  to  my  previous  course.  I  burst  into 
a  little  clearing  and  stopped  short:  before  me  in 
the  darkness  was  something  upright;  a  sentry? 
It  remained  perfectly  immobile.  Cautiously  I 
approached :  it  was  a  granite  slab,  one  of  the 
many  erected  to  commemorate  a  battle  of  the 
Civil  War  fought  on  this  terrain.  I  seated  my- 
self with  my  back  to  the  stone,  for  protection 
against  any  galloping  figures  that  might  chance 
my  way.  Through  my  shirt,  clinging  with  per- 
spiration, I  could  feel  the  cold,  sharp  cut  char- 
acters of  the  inscription:  the  names  of  Ameri- 
cans of  my  father's  generation  who  had  fallen 
here  in  defense  of  a  race  of  alien  blood.  Had 


124  Short  Change 

that  atrocious,  non-human  cry  of  race  hatred 
and  blood  thirst,  sharply  cut  into  my  memory 
like  these  letters  on  granite,  actually  issued  from 
my  own  lips?  Or  had  I  just  heard  it  and  made 
it  my  own,  in  the  moment  of  the  collective 
frenzy  and  the  fused  emotions  and  will  of  the 
mob? 


IX 

Phyllis  the  Feminist 

OF  theories  she  has  enough  to  bow  down  a 
far  sturdier  frame.  So 'it  is  no  wonder 
she  stands  slightly  stooped,  or  walks  with  rather 
uncertain,  if  swift  and  eager  steps.  Nor  is  it 
a  wonder  that  there  are  furrows  forming  in  her 
brow,  broad  and  white  under  masses  and  masses 
of  black  hair,  disposed  with  a  sole  view  to  utility 
but  rebelliously  attaining  beauty  nevertheless. 
Her  eyes  are  often  weary,  too.  Gray  eyes  were 
made  to  betray  the  weariness  one  had  intended 
to  conceal.  And  now  I've  got  so  far  with  her 
portrait,  let  me  add  a  nose  just  a  trifle  too  in- 
curved and  a  millimeter  too  short,  and  lips  too 
full  to  accord  perfectly  with  the  canons  of  white 
stone,  mobile  lips  always  curving  in  smiles  or 
quivering  with  sympathy.  Not  a  beautiful 
woman,  you  say.  No,  not  unless  you  know  her. 
One  who  knows  not  the  real  Phyllis,  as  only 
those  who  wait  can  know,  finds  far  more  beauty 
in  her  sister  Clio,  faultlessly  composed  of  coun- 
ts 


126  Phyllis  the  Feminist 

tenance,  with  not  a  feature  sinning  against  any 
high  canon.  Perfect  bows  of  love  are  Clio's 
lips,  and  how  can  you,  O  stranger,  know  what 
a  tongue  they  sheathe?  It,  too,  might  have  the 
beauty  of  quick  darting  flame  between  white 
teeth,  if  you  were  deaf.  But  you  hear,  and  so 
you  know  it  as  a  barbed  dart  for  your  breast, 
a  cat  o'  nine  tails  for  your  back.  If  there  is  any 
homogeneity  in  human  blood,  Clio  is  surely  a 
changeling.  She  no  more  resembles  Phyllis 
than  the  serpent  in  an  Indian  cave  resembles  the 
jewel  it  guards.  For  years  now  I've  been  brav- 
ing the  serpent,  and  her  hiss  grows  no  less  ter- 
rifying. But  the  jewel  grows  constantly  more 
precious. 

When  Clio's  lightnings  are  unloosed  upon  the 
male  sex,  and  specifically  upon  you,  in  conster- 
nation you  behold  yourself  a  mere  shred  of 
water-logged  wreckage  tossing  upon  a  sea  of 
fathomless  iniquity.  All  the  crimes  of  male  man 
are  dragged  before  the  bar  of  judgment  out  of 
your  shrinking  being.  You  are  the  primordial 
brute  and  bully  from  whom  the  shrieking  chil- 
dren and  trembling  women  used  to  flee  to  the 
dark  recesses  in  the  cave  where  you  were  lord, 
ages  and  ages  ago.  You  are  Bluebeard  himself, 


Phyllis  the  Feminist  127 

tiring  of  wives  and  slaying  them;  you  are  the 
abominable  trafficker  in  white  slaves.  Or  if  you 
are  not,  this  is  only  by  the  grace  of  God  and 
the  terrors  of  the  criminal  law.  Phyllis  knows 
as  well  the  catalogue  of  masculine  misdoings. 
She  is  equally  alive  to  the  disabilities  still  rest- 
ing upon  woman  by  virtue  of  man-made  laws, 
man-invented  customs.  She  too  is  sworn  enemy 
of  man,  as  an  institution.  But  for  man  in  the 
concrete,  aspiring  or  cynical,  crank  or  dilettante, 
brute  or  dandy,  the  charity  of  Phyllis  is  un- 
stinted. He  is  what  he  is  through  circumstance; 
and  all  things  considered,  says  Phyllis,  it  is  re- 
markable how  much  there  is  in  him  still  worth 
salvaging. 

What  the  world  needs,  according  to  Phyllis,  is 
not  the  extirpation  of  man,  but  the  elevation  of 
woman  from  her  sad  state  of  dependence,  mate- 
rial and  moral.  And  since  the  key  to  modern 
life  is  economics — so  many  professors  have  said 
this  that  it  must  be  true — Phyllis  is  vowed  to  a 
crusade  for  the  economic  independence  of 
woman.  She  would  dearly  love  to  conduct  a 
far-flung  lecture  campaign,  but  before  even  the 
smallest  audience  she  falters  and  all  but  faints. 
So  she  has  chosen  what  she  considers  the  hum- 


128  Phyllis  the  Feminist 

bier  lot  of  mere  work.  She  has  organized  a  trade 
school  where  the  daughters  of  the  poor — and 
the  daughters  of  the  rich,  if  they  like — may  gain 
industrial  proficiency  and  economic  independ- 
ence, and  with  these  that  sense  of  personal 
freedom  and  individual  responsibility  that  are 
supposed  to  characterize  industrial  man.  It  is 
a  good  school,  too,  and  it  thrives.  This  is  ad- 
mitted even  by  me  who  have  watched  it  through 
ten  years  in  the  pose  of  a  scoffer,  and  indeed 
hoping  in  my  secret  heart  that  it  would  fall 
through. 

Phyllis  is  an  incomparable  administrator;  there 
is  not  one  of  the  problems  infesting  the  volun- 
teer educator's  life  for  which  she  does  not  find 
a  satisfactory  solution.  But  she  is  entirely  un- 
conscious of  her  competence.  And  she  is  for- 
ever surrounding  herself  with  advisers,  prevail- 
ingly men  of  imposing  bulk  and  dreadnaught 
mien,  professors,  responsible  journalists,  public- 
spirited  citizens.  Ask  yourself,  how  much 
thought  have  these  formidable  fronts  ever  given 
to  the  problem  of  industrially  educating  pink, 
chattering  little  city  misses,  hovering  in  the 
limbo  between  the  public  schools  and  matri- 
mony? No  thought  at  all,  and  the  canny  ones 


Phyllis  the  Feminist  129 

among  them  pluck  their  beards  and  bide  their 
time  until  Phyllis  has  set  forth  the  problem  and 
her  solution  of  it.  Then  they  restate  her  solu- 
tion in  polysyllabic  terms  that  Phyllis  must  labor 
painfully  to  comprehend.  She  always  does  com- 
prehend, and  a  celestial  smile  sweeps  the  per- 
plexity from  her  face.  "  Oh  Mr.  Vished,  you 
have  helped  me  so  much!  Now  I  can  see  just 
where  I  have  been  making  my  mistakes." 

Poor  child,  she  really  thinks  they  have  given 
her  something.  Those  of  her  advisers  who 
aren't  canny  emit  clouds  of  advice,  each  cloud- 
let sufficient  in  itself  to  wreck  her  undertaking. 
From  these,  too,  she  says  she  gets  great  help, 
and  believes  it.  If  all  those  busy  men  had  not 
been  so  generous  with  their  counsel,  what  in  the 
world  would  have  become  of  her  school,  she  de- 
mands passionately  whenever  I  venture  a  word 
of  truth  about  those  hollow  drums.  Why  is  it 
that  a  woman  should  be  so  bent  on  thrusting  the 
credit  for  what  she  alone  has  done  upon  other 
persons,  utterly  undeserving?  Why,  even  I, 
who  openly  avow  my  mortal  hostility  to  the 
great  work,  am  regularly  enumerated  among  its 
saviors. 

Well,  thanks  to  the  advisers,  as  Phyllis  main- 


130  Phyllis  the  Feminist 

tains,  or  in  spite  of  them,  as  I  maintain,  the 
school  is  a  great  success,  and  if  you  are  a  femi- 
nist from  Sweden  or  Montenegro  or  Los  An- 
geles, you  visit  it  as  a  matter  of  course  when 
you  are  in  New  York.  Here,  as  you  can  see  for 
yourself,  girls  are  gaining  a  command  of  the  in- 
dustrial system  so  that  the  factory  will  be  an 
instrument  pliable  to  their  hands,  not  a  mill  in- 
exorably to  crush  out  their  lives.  Here  they  are 
learning  how  art  can  shoot  from  the  industrial 
stem,  otherwise  so  dry  and  dead,  and  how  joy 
may  conclude  peace  with  labor.  Even  I,  in- 
grained scoffer,  grow  dithyrambic  as  a  sociolo- 
gist from  Helsingfors  as  I  survey  this  feminist 
Eden  of  hopeful  striving.  How  can  it  be  that 
Phyllis  sighs  and  her  kind  eyes  look  so  weary? 
See  this  demure  little  maid  with  shiny  wax 
curls  drawn  over  her  pink  ears,  listening  with 
clear,  steady  eyes  while  Phyllis  explains  with 
infinite  patience  some  complicated  and  fascinat- 
ing process?  Why  does  the  maiden  reply  so  ab- 
sently, so  ineptly?  What  is  she  thinking  of,  be- 
hind her  expression  of  serene  attention?  A 
"date."  Don't  think  I'm  divining  this:  I  am  a 
man  and  take  our  little  maid  at  her  face  value, 
something  by  no  means  negligible.  Phyllis  told 


Phyllis  the  Feminist  131 

me.  And  this,  too,  she  told  me,  though  not  in 
these  bald  terms:  Taken  by  and  large,  there 
are  no  items  in  the  instruction  of  the  school  one- 
tenth  so  interesting  to  its  pupils,  or  valued  one- 
tenth  so  high,  as  the  formulas  for  "  dates  "  smug- 
gled into  the  school  in  hastily  scrawled  notes,  or 
transmitted  by  a  few  hurried  words  at  a  street- 
corner. 

Let  me  not  give  the  impression  that  Phyllis 
is  in  revolt  against  the  fated  renewal  of  the  gen- 
erations. That  would  be  to  confuse  her  way 
of  thought  with  that  of  Clio,  who  looks  upon 
human  nature  as  something  obnoxious,  immoral, 
man-made.  No,  Phyllis  expects  her  girls  to  fall 
in  love,  and  to  wed,  unless,  in  the  rare  instance, 
they  have  a  vocation  for  life-long  independence. 
But  love  should  be  disinterested,  heroic.  Now 
what  are  the  qualities  in  their  lovers  these  little 
daughters  of  Eve  most  celebrate?  "He's  got  a 
dad  who's  awfully  rich."  "  He's  got  just  a  fine 
job,  and  after  we're  married  I'll  never  have  to 
do  a  bit  of  work  in  all  my  life."  Can  it  be,  asks 
Phyllis,  that  economic  independence  for  woman 
is  just  a  leisure-class  dream,  vain,  like  other 
leisure-class  dreams?  This  sounds  more  like 
one  of  my  ideas  than  like  Phyllis's,  does  it  not? 


132  Phyllis  the  Feminist 

Well,  between  you  and  me,  I  planted  it,  long 
ago.  Phyllis  doesn't  remember,  nor  do  I  re- 
mind her.  But  the  idea  grows. 

Phyllis  has  her  despairs:  it  is  none  the  less  a 
great  work  she  is  accomplishing.  Yet  Phyllis 
is  so  human  and  there  are  so  many  others  who 
are  not.  Therefore  I  maintain,  it  is  a  great  waste 
that  she  should  be  immolated  even  to  such  a 
noble  ideal.  "  Well,"  you  demand  tartly,  "  why 
don't  you  tell  her  so?"  O  perspicuous  one,  I 
have,  again  and  again,  for  ten  years,  almost.  It 
was  at  first  a  mobile  campaign,  with  short,  sharp 
conflicts  in  which  I  was  always  routed.  But 
years  ago  I  settled  down  to  a  war  of  attrition. 
And  now  a  great  change  is  coming  over  Phyllis's 
affairs.  Clio  is  to  be  married.  She  has  yielded 
her  heart  to  a  millionaire,  blameless,  bloodless 
scion  of  a  fierce  old  rum-drinking,  slave-dealing 
New  England  house.  Thus  are  the  sins  of  the 
fathers  visited  upon  the  sons  even  unto  the  third 
generation,  and  nowadays  still  farther  down  the 
line.  But  I  reck  not  of  the  millionaire:  Phyllis 
will  be  lonely. 


X 

The  Molting  of  Alcibiades 

O>  nothing  at  all  serious  just  Dame  Na- 
ture.  She's  leaving  you,  confound  her, 
but  you're  not  the  first  she's  forsaken."  The 
doctor  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed.  Hor- 
rible beast,  thought  Alcibiades.  A  man  of  any 
fineness  of  nature  couldn't  have  had  teeth  set 
at  such  wide  intervals.  Wideness  was  the  char- 
acter of  this  doctor:  eyes,  big,  cold,  bulging, 
with  what  seemed  half  an  ell  between  them; 
shoulders  inhumanly  far  apart;  wide  hands,  wide 
thumbs.  Surely  the  doctor  couldn't  have  been 
like  that  when  he  was  a  young  man :  he  must 
just  have  spread,  under  the  weight  of  his  own 
coarse  brutality. 

"  Thank  you,  doctor.  I'm  much  reassured." 
Alcibiades  rose. 

"  Don't  go."  The  doctor  rolled  his  eyes  and 
seemed  almost  to  smack  his  lips.  "  Now  we're 
on  the  subject  of  advancing  age,  I  just  want  to 
show  you  what  nature  does  to  our  poor  bodies, 
anyway.  Come  into  my  museum." 

133 


134  The  Molting  of  Alcibiades 

"  I  mustn't  take  any  more  of  your  time,"  pro- 
tested Alcibiades. 

Anybody  else  would  have  perceived  that  Al- 
cibiades was  suffering  and  would  have  let  him 
go  in  peace.  But  the  doctor  laid  his  wide  hand 
on  Alcibiades's  arm  and  half  thrust  him  through 
the  office  door,  down  a  dim  corridor  and  into  a 
large  room  overencumbered  with  glass  cases.  A 
faint  odor  of  stale  chemicals  made  Alcibiades's 
nostrils  quiver. 

"Lord,  what  a  lot  of  bones!"  Alcibiades 
shuddered. 

"  Yes,  they  are  my  pet  extravagance.  I  flatter 
myself  I  have  the  best  private  collection  in  town. 
Some  day  when  we  have  lots  of  time  I  want  to 
show  you  all  of  it.  But  we  were  speaking  of 
advancing  age.  We'll  just  look  at  what  I  have 
in  Case  L."  The  doctor  pushed  back  the  glass 
doors  of  the  case  and  took  down  the  upper  half 
of  a  skull,  neatly  sawed  as  if  to  make  a  heathen 
drinking  cup. 

"  You  see  how  thin  it  is  at  the  temples?  "  The 
doctor  tapped  the  bone  with  his  pencil,  produc- 
ing a  distressing,  papery  sound.  "  You  ask  me, 
what  became  of  the  bony  tissue.  Here  is  the 
answer."  The  doctor  drew  from  a  lower  shelf 


The  Molting  of  Alcibiades  135 

the  bones  of  an  arm  and  forearm,  soldered,  as  it 
were,  into  one  piece  by  a  rough  bony  deposit 
encasing  the  elbow. 

"  Lord ! "  exclaimed  Alcibiades  in  horror. 
"  How  could  he  use  his  arm?  " 

"  He  couldn't.  Rheumatism  he  called  it  and 
the  C.  O.  S.  thought  he  was  just  malingering. 
But  here  is  something  still  more  interesting. 
See  how  the  bony  tissue  of  the  head  of  this  thigh 
bone  is  worn  away?  Feel  it:  smooth  as  glass, 
isn't  it?  What  does  this  mean?  Why,  it  means, 
while  he  was  still  walking,  the  cartilage  was  en- 
tirely worn  away,  and  much  bone  besides." 

"  Must  have  squeaked,"  said  Alcibiades  feebly. 
"  Awfully  interesting,  Doctor,  but  I'm  afraid  I'm 
missing  an  appointment.  Good-by." 

"Going  down?"  inquired  the  doctor. 

"  No.     I'm  going  up  to  the  Grand  Central." 

"  Good,  so  am  I."  Alcibiades  shuddered  again. 
But  there  was  no  help  for  it. 

"  It  isn't  merely  a  man's  body  that  changes 
when  he  reaches  your  stage  in  life,"  lectured 
the  doctor,  as  Alcibiades  vainly  strove  to  walk 
him  out  of  breath.  "  Your  eyes  change  from 
near-sightedness  to  far-sightedness;  your  waist 
line  grows  heavier,  your  breath  short.  But  these 


136          The  Molting  of  Alcibiades 

are  little  things.  The  big  thing  is  the  change  in 
mind.  You're  going  to  grow  conservative,  but 
for  a  few  months  you'll  find  yourself  inclined 
to  be  a  wild  radical.  You're  going  to  grow  com- 
placent, but  for  a  while  you'll  have  fits  of  deep 
pessimism.  You're  going  to  become  material- 
istic, but  now  you  have  vain,  spiritualistic,  mys- 
tic yearnings.  Most  of  the  time  you  feel  droopy, 
downhearted.  For  all  the  world  like  a  bird 
molting,  isn't  it?"  The  doctor's  laughter  rose 
above  the  din  of  the  streets  like  the  sound  of  a 
gunmetal  gong. 

"  And   as   for  your   attitude   toward   the   fair 


"  Oh,  come,  Doctor,  don't  talk  nonsense. 
You're  going  to  threaten  me  with  approaching 
indifference." 

"  No,  not  that  at  all.  I  don't  know  myself 
just  when  that  sets  in.  But  you'll  undergo  a 
change  nevertheless  in  that  regard.  You'll  be- 
gin to  be  mysteriously  attracted  to  extreme 
youth.  You,  an  intellectual  man,  will  begin  to 
find  yourself  dull  in  the  presence  of  a  mature 
woman.  But  a  silly  little  miss  of  eighteen,  chew- 
ing gum,  talking  slang,  saucy  eyes,  pink  cheeks 
and  all  that  —  she'll  make  your  blood  dance." 


The  Molting  of  Alcibiades  137 

"  Pooh,  you're  all  off  there,"  said  Alcibiades 
contemptuously. 

"  I  don't  say  you've  reached  that  point  yet, 
but  you'll  soon  reach  it.  Hang  it  all !  I  should 
have  been  a  psychologist.  That's  what  really 
interests  me. — I  thought  you  said  you  were  go- 
ing to  the  Grand  Central?  No?  Well,  good- 
by." 

"  What  a  brute !  Who  recommended  him  to 
me,  anyway?"  thought  Alcibiades,  heading  for 
Fifth  Avenue.  He  knew  that  his  day  had  been 
spoiled.  He  was  rid  of  the  doctor's  physical 
presence,  to  be  sure,  but  it  was  not  so  easy  to 
emerge  from  the  aura  of  his  detestable  person- 
ality. Something  of  the  doctor  seemed  to  per- 
vade the  whole  atmosphere,  dimming  the  sun- 
light on  the  shop  fronts,  subtracting  a  shade  or 
two  of  blue  from  the  sky  overhead.  It  was  warm, 
but  Alcibiades  felt  chilly. 

"  Hot  Scotch  might  help,  but  of  course  I  can't 
get  it  at  this  season."  Alcibiades  turned  into  his 
club.  The  library  was  deserted  except  for  a 
bald,  petulant  faced  member  who  sat  at  a  win- 
dow mechanically  turning  the  leaves  of  a  mag- 
azine. 

"  I  know  what  ails  him,"  said  Alcibiades  to 


138  The  Molting  of  Alcibiades 

himself.  "  Nature  is  dissolving  the  bone  away 
from  where  it  belongs  and  depositing  it  where 
it  doesn't  belong.  Soon  he'll  squeak  when  he 
moves."  Alcibiades  flexed  his  arm.  What! 
Did  he  perceive  a  slight  twinge,  a  scarcely  per- 
ceptible stiffness?  Alcibiades  seated  himself  in 
the  far  corner  of  the  library,  turning  his  face  to 
the  wall. 

Of  course  he  hadn't  actually  been  christened 
Alcibiades.  His  official  signature  was  Luther 
Baldwin,  Jr.  But  at  college  he  had  run  with  a 
very  wild  and  dashing  set  of  gilded  youth,  and 
had  played  politics  in  the  utterly  shameless  man- 
ner of  the  classical  ancients.  Besides,  he  had 
cultivated  the  friendship  of  a  very  original  dis- 
frocked professor  who  conducted  a  tavern,  ab- 
horred of  the  faculty,  just  off  the  college  campus. 
Somebody  in  spite  had  dubbed  him  the  young 
Alcibiades,  and  the  name  stuck.  He  liked  it, 
and  did  his  best  to  live  the  part.  While  the  rest 
of  his  set  were  squaring  themselves  with  the 
existing  order  of  serious  business,  the  young 
Alcibiades  was  playing  at  art,  dabbling  in  phi- 
losophy, mixing  in  politics  and  greatly  admiring 
his  own  many-sidedness.  He  was  really  worth 
admiring,  too.  Wherever  you  saw  his  handsome 


The  Molting  of  Alcibiades  139 

head  shining  out  from  the  midst  of  a  group  of 
his  fellows  you  were  sure  to  find  him  talking 
and  the  rest  listening.  He  was  always  to  be 
found  in  any  new  movement  to  oust  the  consti- 
tuted authorities  from  their  places,  and  he  al- 
ways appeared  as  the  leader,  so  long  as  the  hope 
remained  forlorn.  His  own  circle  was  very  re- 
spectable, rather  aristocratic;  yet  somehow  they 
forgave  him  for  consorting  with  anarchists  and 
longshoremen,  waiters  and  tramps.  And  the 
outcasts  forgave  him  his  blue-blooded  ante- 
cedents and  relations.  So  brilliant  a  creature 
could  not  be  expected  to  conform  to  the  social 
rules  imposed  upon  the  ordinary  man. 

Nobody  doubted  at  first  that  the  young  Al- 
cibiades would  finally  achieve  something  re- 
markable. He  was  preeminently  a  coming  man. 
He  might  squander  his  present,  but  he  had  a 
future.  Envious  old  friends  did  indeed  abandon 
this  opinion  as  year  after  year  slipped  by  with- 
out tangible  realization  of  the  promise  of  Alci- 
biades. But  there  were  always  new  friends  to 
believe  in  him.  And  Alcibiades  himself  had 
never  lost  faith  in  his  future.  Or  more  precisely, 
he  had  never  lost  faith  until  he  had  fallen  into  the 
clutches  of  Dr.  Bradshaw. 


140  The  Molting  of  Alcibiades 

In  late  weeks  the  young  Alcibiades  had  been 
occasionally  oppressed  by  a  vague  malaise,  by 
momentary  fits  of  faintness  and  dizziness,  by 
sudden  blurrings  of  vision.  "  It's  nothing,"  he 
said  to  his  friends.  "  You'd  expect  such  a  life 
as  mine  to  produce  physical  consequences.  I 
suppose  it's  my  heart." 

At  last  he  yielded  to  his  friends'  entreaties  and 
submitted  himself  to  Dr.  Bradshaw  to  be  over- 
hauled. Well,  it  wasn't  his  heart.  It  was  es- 
sentially nothing  but  a  change  in  his  eyes,  as 
the  doctor  promptly  discovered. 

"  Yes,  you're  getting  far-sighted.  Quite  nat- 
urally. You  see,  your  youth  is  done.  You've 
been  going  up  hill,  now  you're  going  down. 
You'll  soon  get  adjusted  to  the  new  process,  and 
not  notice  it  at  all,  just  as  you  were  formerly 
adjusted  to  the  process  of  growth." 

"  I  was  afraid  it  might  be  my  heart,"  said  Al- 
cibiades bravely.  One  can  get  along,  you  know, 
with  almost  any  kind  of  heart,  if  it  hangs  to- 
gether at  all.  But  going  downhill?  The  proc- 
ess of  aging  succeeding  upon  that  of  growth 
while  one  still  looks  upon  himself  as  essentially 
a  coming  man?  Everybody,  I  suppose,  expe- 
riences a  twinge  or  two  when  he  first  acknowl- 


The  Molting  of  Alcibiades  141 

edges  that  he  has  passed  his  meridian.  But  Al- 
cibiades had  staked  everything  upon  his  up- 
ward trend.  He  had  no  standing  grain,  only 
new  sowings,  and  the  autumn  frosts  were  in 
the  air. 

Gradually  the  library  filled  with  men  who  had 
drifted  in  to  drink  tea  or  better;  men  of  middle 
age  or  older,  for  the  most  part  corpulent  and 
contented. 

"  That's  a  banker,"  commented  Alcibiades. 
"  That's  the  head  of  a  construction  company. 
That's  a  college  president.  They're  going  down- 
hill, too,  but  they  don't  know  it.  Why?  I  see. 
The  bank,  the  construction  company,  the  college 
keep  growing  and  their  presidents  confuse  the 
process  with  their  personal  growth. 

"  That's  the  secret.  Have  some  kind  of  work 
that  will  serve  you  as  a  sort  of  carapace  which 
will  stand  up  before  you  in  the  glass,  stiff  and 
formidable,  even  if  you  quite  shrivel  away  in- 
side. Oh,  thunder.  I'll  go  down  and  see  if 
Robert  is  in  his  office." 

Robert  Baldwin,  Alcibiades's  elder  brother, 
maintained  a  law  office  downtown.  Law  bored 
Alcibiades,  and  so  did  Robert.  In  fact,  the  law 
had  eaten  out  Robert's  personality  as  an  oyster 


142  The  Molting  of  Alcibiades 

crab  eats  out  an  oyster.  But  since  he  had  begun 
to  feel  out  of  sorts,  Alcibiades  had  haunted  his 
brother's  office.  It  was  the  call  of  the  blood  in 
distress,  perhaps,  he  had  explained  to  himself. 

As  was  usually  the  case  near  the  close  of  busi- 
ness hours,  Robert  was  not  to  be  seen.  And,  as 
usual,  Alcibiades  seated  himself  to  wait  vainly 
a  half  hour  or  more.  It  was  a  martyrdom. 
Three  typewriters  were  clattering  away  des- 
perately as  if  it  made  the  least  difference  when 
legal  documents  are  finished.  At  the  desk  near- 
est Alcibiades  a  very  young  girl  was  struggling 
with  her  shorthand  notes.  She'd  never  be  effi- 
cient, but  she'd  always  be  cheap,  and  Robert 
doted  on  cheapness.  Beyond  that,  she  was  beau- 
tiful, but  what  was  that  to  Robert,  desiccated 
by  the  law?  She  was  the  daughter  of  Sardinian 
immigrants,  over-Americanized  by  the  public 
schools  and  the  business  college. 

Thank  Heaven,  Americanization  doesn't  work 
such  havoc  with  looks  as  with  manners.  Grazia's 
hair,  in  spite  of  her  efforts  to  pull  it  over  her  ears, 
retained  its  character  of  rebellious,  living  tresses 
of  jet.  Grazia's  brows  preserved  their  air  of 
mystical  brooding,  whatever  trivial  East  Side 
scheming  might  be  taking  place  behind  them. 


The  Molting  of  Alcibiades  143 

Grazia's  eyes,  blacker  than  their  entrancing 
lashes,  seemed  to  burn  with  meaning.  Of  course 
the  meaning  wasn't  there,  but  what  did  that 
matter?  If  you  glanced  at  Grazia  and  then 
closed  your  eyes  her  face  stood  out  in  the  dark- 
ness of  your  imagination  as  does  the  face  of  an 
Italian  Madonna  in  the  dark  canvas  of  an  old 
master.  Only,  the  lips  on  the  canvas  of  your 
imagination  would  suddenly  curve  in  a  challeng- 
ing, dazzling  smile,  and  the  olive  cheeks  would 
glow  with  dusky  red.  Alcibiades  glanced  at 
Grazia  and  the  feeling  of  tedium  and  melan- 
choly dropped  from  him. 

Grazia  rose  from  her  desk  and  approached 
him,  as  if  to  consult  him  about  the  rendering  of 
certain  puzzling  notes. 

"  Say,"  she  said  in  a  low,  discordant  voice. 
"Can't  we  make  it  a  little  later?  I've  got  an 
awful  lot  of  letters  to  get  off,  and  I'm  'fraid  I 
can't  be  there  at  six." 

The  doctor's  brutal  voice  seemed  to  ring  in 
Alcibiades's  ear.  "A  silly  little  miss  of  eight- 
een  "  His  feeling  of  exhilaration  was  gone. 

"  See  here,  Grazia,"  he  said,  rising.  "  Let's 
cut  all  this  out.  There's  nothing  in  it  for  you, 
and  nothing  in  it  for  me." 


144  The  Molting  of  Alcibiades 

"What  you  throwing  me  down  for?"  de- 
manded Grazia  indignantly.  "  Just  because  I 
can't  be  there  at  six.  Oh,  well!"  She  tossed 
her  head  melodramatically  and  retired  to  her 
desk. 

"  I'm  a  fool.  She  was  good  fun.  That  old 
brute  of  a  doctor  is  right.  I'm  molting,"  re- 
flected Alcibiades  as  he  signaled  a  taxi. 

"  Oh,  drive  me  anywhere,"  he  replied  to  the 
chauffeur's  unspoken  inquiry.  "  Drive  me 
through  the  park  if  you  can't  think  of  anything 
better." 

Long  shadows  from  the  west  lay  across  the 
park.  They  were  brownish,  dingy,  dead.  Only 
yesterday  the  shadows  fell  from  the  east,  black 
and  clear  cut,  and  between  them  lay  strips  of 
bright  green  glistening  with  dew. 


XI 
The  Meed  of  a  Brute 

ANTELOPE  CREEK,  under  the  red-painted 
iron  bridge  at  the  station,  looks  like  an 
abandoned  Eastern  canal,  good  for  nothing  but 
green  scum  and  pond  lilies.  But  at  the  time  of 
the  June  rains,  when  the  overfed  Missouri  groans 
in  its  bed,  Antelope  Creek  becomes  a  river  of 
black  water,  flush  with  its  banks  and  flowing, 
apparently,  uphill  toward  the  bluffs,  where  alone 
you  can  set  foot  on  solid  ground  in  this  muddy 
season.  To  get  there  you  embark  in  a  flat-bot- 
tomed boat,  which  will  nose  its  own  way  among 
the  drowned  willows  while  you  sit  at  ease,  sur- 
veying comfortable  farm-houses  nestling  among 
barns  and  full  corncribs  and  haystacks — a  pleth- 
ora carried  over  from  the  last  year's  harvest. 
These  are  the  homes  of  the  enthusiasts  who 
rushed  west  to  defend  the  right  in  "  bleeding 
Kansas."  There  is  no  enthusiasm  now,  only 
prosperity,  waiting  for  the  roads  to  harden  so 
that  the  Ford  cars  may  come  out  and  earn  their 

145 


146  The  Meed  of  a  Brute 

keep.  Soon  the  banks  of  the  stream  become 
higher  and  you  see  nothing  but  the  dense  fringe 
of  ragweed  on  its  edges,  a  little  above  you.  At 
length  your  boat  begins  to  turn  in  circles;  you 
have  reached  the  head  of  navigation.  The  real 
Antelope  Creek  is  before  you,  a  thin  stream, 
trickling  down  in  many  strands  over  a  shelf  of 
greasy  clay.  You  may  disembark,  for  the  mud 
is  never  deep  on  the  upland. 

The  road  rises  abruptly  for  a  hundred  yards, 
and  then  keeps  a  fairly  consistent  level,  follow- 
ing the  sinuosities  of  a  long  hill  just  above  the 
margin  of  profitable  cultivation.  Below  you  lies 
the  Antelope  valley,  broad  enough  for  a  suc- 
cession of  good  farms  that  pretend  to  match  the 
bottom  land  in  fertility,  at  least  on  their  choicest 
acres  near  the  stream.  These  are  the  home- 
steads of  Civil  War  veterans,  contented  old  men 
enjoying  a  twofold  prosperity  from  the  rising 
price  of  corn  and  meat  and  the  increasing  liber- 
ality of  pension  legislation.  Gradually  the  valley 
grows  narrower  and  the  cornfields  tilt  toward 
the  sky-line.  Germans  live  here  and  other  im- 
migrant homesteaders,  thriftily  trading  their 
lives  for  minute  improvements  in  the  thin  soil. 
At  last  the  road  finds  the  valley  no  longer  worth 


The  Meed  of  a  Brute  147 

following;  it  turns  resolutely  to  the  left  and 
mounts  a  saddleback  hill,  from  which  the  way- 
farer gains  a  profitless  vista  of  hill  above  hill, 
to  the  faint  horizon.  These  are  the  estates  of 
the  men  yet  to  come.  In  the  autumn  fire  sweeps 
over  the  slopes,  offering  a  few  hours  of  splendor 
and  smoke  in  recompense  for  the  blackness  that 
is  to  reign  until  May — save  when  the  snow  flies. 
In  summer  thin  blades  of  grass  clothe  the  hills 
scantily,  and  the  compass  plant  puts  forth  its 
pronged  leaves,  pointing  futilely  to  the  true 
north. 

Just  before  you  leave  the  valley  you  observe 
at  the  bank  of  the  dwindling  stream  a  little  hut 
almost  weathered  into  the  landscape.  The 
walls  are  of  prairie  sod,  with  an  unsymmetrical 
opening  for  a  door  and  another  for  a  window; 
the  poles  supporting  the  sod  roof  protrude  and 
slant  upward  as  if  giving  way  in  the  middle. 
This  was  the  home  of  Rasmus  Keiser  and  his 
faithful  wife  Trina,  the  last  ripple  of  immigra- 
tion into  the  Antelope  valley.  Trina  was  one 
of  those  woman  you  don't  really  see  if 
you  deliberately  look  at  them,  which  you  feel 
you  have  no  right  to  do.  Effaced,  weathered, 
protectively  colored,  I'm  not  sure  which,  she 


The  Meed  of  a  Brute 


was  very  thin  and  frail,  and  breathed  her 
words  instead  of  voicing  them.  I  think  her 
eyes  were  blue  and  her  hair  yellow  under 
gray. 

Rasmus  you  couldn't  help  seeing.  He  was 
enormous,  with  offensively  prominent  milk-blue 
eyes,  and  a  disorderly  beard,  garishly  red  but 
trimmed  at  the  temples  with  white.  There  was 
no  remark  so  unimportant  but  he  would  put  the 
full  force  of  his  cavernous  lungs  behind  it.  He 
was  a  brute  and  a  bully,  and  prided  himself  that 
through  all  his  life  he  had  whipped  every  boy 
or  man  who  had  dared  to  show  fight.  Every 
Saturday  he  walked  four  miles  to  town  to  spend 
the  night  in  the  saloon,  where  he  held  an  arm- 
chair as  his  fort,  drinking  hugely  and  glaring 
about  for  a  possible  enemy.  Sometimes  when 
the  room  was  full  of  rowdies  and  one  appeared 
to  be  egging  another  on,  Rasmus  would  rise  and 
reel  heavily  about  the  room,  by  way  of  temp- 
tation. A  newcomer,  encouraged  by  thought  of 
easy  victory,  would  jolt  against  him  and  lively 
moments  would  follow.  If  his  victim  succumbed 
too  easily,  Rasmus  was  likely  to  make  out  a 
charge  of  conspiracy  against  the  whole  crowd. 
Some  would  make  good  their  exit,  but  for  the 


The  Meed  of  a  Brute  149 

rest  Rasmus  would  "  cord  them  up,"  to  use  his 
own  woodman's  phrase. 

With  the  rising  of  the  sun  Rasmus  would 
stow  a  pint  bottle  in  his  pocket  and  set  out  with 
long  strides  for  home.  Not  a  sign  would  be  in 
his  gait  of  the  raw  alcohol  in  his  veins.  But 
once  he  reached  the  point  in  the  road  above  his 
house  he  would  put  his  hands  to  his  mouth  and 
roar:  "  Trina!  3 eg  er  fuld!"  Then  he  would  lie 
down  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 

Trina  would  run  panting  up  the  slope,  and 
after  supreme  efforts  would  get  him  on  his  feet. 
Then  followed  a  slow  progress  down  the  path, 
Rasmus  swaying  from  side  to  side  like  a  top- 
heavy  ship,  Trina  exerting  all  her  strength  and 
agility  and  practised  art  to  prevent  an  overturn. 
Sometimes  she  failed,  and  both  went  down 
heavily  among  the  sandburs,  Rasmus  roaring 
reproaches  and  Trina  breathing  apologies.  Oc- 
casionally a  passing  neighbor  volunteered  assist- 
ance. I  did  so  once.  But  I  got  a  glance  from 
Rasmus,  and  remembering  the  "  cording-up " 
process,  desisted. 

Rasmus  was  a  public  scandal,  and  we  discussed 
him  thoroughly  whenever  we  met.  "  It's  a  pity 
somebody  doesn't  kill  him,"  was  our  usual  con- 


150  The  Meed  of  a  Brute 

elusion.  And  that  is  just  what  in  the  end  some- 
body did.  Rasmus  attacked  one  newcomer  too 
many  and  got  pistol  bullets  in  exchange  for 
blows.  The  rowdies  carried  him  home.  And 
Trina  went  mad.  We  tried  to  get  her  away 
from  the  wretched  hut,  but  she  wouldn't  leave 
it.  All  summer  she  sat  in  her  doorway  moaning, 
or  on  the  prickly  turf  of  the  hill  above,  where 
Rasmus  had  been  buried. 

It  was  my  privilege  one  September  morning 
to  convey  Mrs.  Barton,  the  president  of  the  Wil- 
liams County  Equal  Suffrage  League,  over  the 
Antelope  Creek  road  to  an  upland  village  meet- 
ing. As  the  event  was  still  fresh,  I  narrated  the 
tale  of  Rasmus  and  Trina. 

"  I  want  to  see  her,"  said  Mrs.  Barton. 

"  There  she  is  now,"  I  said,  pointing  to  a  mo- 
tionless seated  figure  at  the  point  of  the  hill. 

As  we  approached  Trina  looked  up  vacantly, 
as  though  we  were  part  of  the  procession  of 
cloud  shadows  pursuing  one  another  over  the 
face  of  the  field.  Mrs.  Barton  offered  her  hand, 
but  Trina  made  a  deprecating  gesture.  Her 
hands  were  yellow  with  the  soil. 

"  It  is  too  cold  for  you  here  on  this  hill,"  said 
Mrs.  Barton. 


The  Meed  of  a  Brute  151 

"Forme?  No,"  breathed  Trina.  "  It  is  too 
cold  for  Rasmus.  This  is  a  dreadful  country,  so 
black,  so  cold.  It  is  dreadful  to  live  in,  but  to 
die  in,  it  is  terrible.  Over  there  it  is  not  hard 
to  die.  The  ground  is  full  of  them,  since  old 
time — young  men  and  girls,  parents  and  little 
children,  noble  ladies,  princes,  kings.  They  have 
gone  the  road,  and  it  is  not  so  lonely." 

Trina's  consciousness  no  longer  included  us. 
She  had  returned  to  her  work  of  crushing  the 
little  hard  clods  to  a  fine  powder. 

"  That  is  the  way  women  used  to  be,"  I  said 
apologetically  as  we  descended  the  hill. 

"  Used  to  be !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Barton  indig- 
nantly. "  They  are  now  and  always  will  be." 

"  But  I  told  you  he  was  a  brute  and  beat  her." 

"  You  men  of  to-day  don't  beat  your  wives,  it 
is  true,"  said  Mrs.  Barton.  "  A  woman  has  to 
matter  a  lot  to  a  man  before  he  will  beat  her." 


XII 

On  Land  and  Sea 

THE  express  was  pulling  out  of  the  station. 
I  had  run  through  the  headlines  of  the 
Evening  Post,  and  had  decided  that  the  text 
promised  nothing  worth  poring  over  in  the  dim 
light  of  the  smoking  car.  And  so  I  fell  to  study- 
ing the  shoulders  and  heads  of  the  two  young 
men  in  the  next  seat.  One  was  in  uniform  with 
sleeve  adorned  with  jolly  red  chevrons  and  a 
wreath  and  an  eagle  in  white.  His  well-shaped 
head,  close  clipped,  crowned  with  handsome  cap, 
turned  incessantly  in  little  quick  movements  of 
general  awareness  and  curiosity.  The  other 
young  man  sat  quite  motionless,  rather  slouched 
and  inanimate,  but  there  was  something  about 
the  contour  of  his  hat  and  the  fit  of  his  coat 
collar  that  suggested  a  consciousness  of  personal 
superiority. 

As  the  conductor  took  up  the  tickets  the  sailor 
spoke. 

"  I  see  you  get  out  at  Baintree.  Live  there?  " 
152 


On  Land  and  Sea  153 

"  Yes." 

"  So  do  I.  That  is,  I  did  before  I  went  into 
the  navy." 

The  civilian  remained  silent. 

"Are  you  in  business  at  Baintree?"  persisted 
the  sailor. 

"  No.     I'm  attending  college." 

"In  the  city?" 

"  No,  up  state.  I'm  a  junior  at  Cornell.  I'll 
graduate  next  year,  if  the  draft  doesn't  take 
me." 

"What  do  they  study  there?" 

"  Oh,  it  all  depends  on  your  couise.  I  am 
studying  mostly  economics." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  Well,  it's  about  the  tariff,  and  prices  and 
such  things." 

"  Oh.     Do  you  like  it  there?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Do  you  have  any  fun?" 

"  I  should  say  we  do.  You  see,  we  have  to 
attend  classes  in  the  morning  most  of  the  time, 
but  in  the  afternoon  we  can  study  or  do  any- 
thing we  like — work  in  the  gym  or  play  hockey 
or  go  on  the  toboggan  slide.  Say!  that's  some 
fun !  And  in  the  spring  we  do  a  lot  of  canoeing 


154  On  Land  and  Sea 

on  the  lake.  Fine  lake,  but  pretty  dangerous. 
Every  spring  some  students  get  drowned  there. 
One  year  there  were  six — some  of  the  bodies 
weren't  recovered  for  weeks.  You  wouldn't 
think  that  lake  was  so  dangerous." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  sailor  respectfully. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  in  the  navy?  " 

"  Six  years." 

"Like  it?" 

"  I  liked  it  at  first,  when  I  had  a  regular  ship. 
I  don't  care  for  it  now.  It's  what  you  might 
call  a  dog's  life.  You're  put  on  a  ship,  say  for 
Archangel.  When  you  get  there  you  report  to 
the  American  consul  and  he  gives  you  passage 
on  a  ship  bound  for  Bristol  or  Brest.  Maybe 
she  doesn't  sail  for  two  or  three  weeks,  and  all 
you  can  do  is  hang  around.  Archangel — that's 
a  rotten  town  for  you !  Well,  when  you  get 
down  to  England  or  France  you  look  up  another 
American  consul,  and  he  puts  you  on  a  ship 
bound  for  home,  and  when  you  get  here  you 
find  orders  to  go  out  on  a  ship  bound  for  Italy. 
I  got  in  this  morning.  As  like  as  not  I'll  get 
orders  to  sail  to-morrow." 

The  collegian  eyed  the  sailor  with  awakening 
curiosity. 


On  Land  and  Sea  155 

"What  do  you  do?  What  kind  of  work  do 
they  give  you?  " 

"  I  don't  do  any  work,"  said  the  sailor.  "  I 
just  command  the  gun  crew." 

"Did  you  ever  get  any  submarines?" 

"  No.  But  they  damn  near  got  me.  First, 
when  we  were  coming  home  on  the  H — .  I 
was  below,  and  Lord,  we  got  a  bump :  the  ship 
just  stood  still  and  shook.  I  ran  up  to  the  bridge, 
but  she  wasn't  even  listing.  There  was  a  hole 
in  her  side  seventeen  feet  across,  about  all  of  it 
above  water  line.  We  sent  out  an  S.O.S.  and 
decided  to  stay  by  the  ship,  but  the  civilians  just 
went  wild.  They  were  Spaniards,  most  of  them. 
A  dozen  of  them  got  away  in  a  boat  and  capsized 
— all  drowned.  Pretty  soon  another  ship  came 
along  and  we  got  off  all  right.  One  man  went 
crazy;  locked  himself  in  his  room  so  we  had  to 
break  in  with  an  ax.  He  fought  us  off  with  a 
stool  but  finally  we  got  him  under  control." 

"Gee!     What  did  he  think?" 

"  Lord  knows.  But  the  other  time  it  was  a 
close  shave.  It  was  just  getting  daylight.  I 
was  on  the  bridge,  talking  to  the  mate,  and  I 
saw  the  torpedo  coming.  It  was  mighty  rough, 
and  you'd  have  said  that  torpedo  would  jump 


156  On  Land  and  Sea 

right  out  of  the  water.  I  thought  she'd  miss  us, 
but  she  didn't.  Now  you  know  we  had  signals; 
at  that  time  six  whistles  meant  '  Submarine  in 
sight,'  and  four  whistles  meant  *  All  hands  leave 
ship.'  When  the  torpedo  struck  it  keeled  me 
over  and  I  was  so  rattled  I  didn't  know  what  I 
was  doing.  I  gave  four  whistles  and  then  three 
and  then  another  three  and  then  four.  And  the 
mate  said,  *  I  guess  that'll  do ;  nobody  knows 
what  in  hell  your  signals  mean,  but  they'll  know 
pretty  damn  soon.'  I  ran  down  to  the  captain's 
cabin  to  wake  him  up.  He  was  sitting  on  the 
edge  of  his  berth  stretching.  '  Better  get  dressed, 
Cap'n,'  I  said.  'Heigh-ho '  he  said  and  stretched 
some  more.  '  Guess  I  better.'  '  They  got  us 
this  time,  Cap'n.'  '  Heigh-ho.  So  they  did.' 

"  Then  I  ran  down  to  my  berth  to  get  my 
life  preserver  and  my  automatic.  You  know  the 
petty  officers  are  supposed  to  carry  pistols  and 
I  didn't  want  to  lose  it.  But  I  couldn't  get  the 
door  open.  Everything  in  the  whole  ship  was 
jammed  by  the  explosion.  And  while  I  was 
pulling  at  the  door  the  lights  went  out  and  I 
thought,  I'd  better  get  to  hell  out  of  this.  So 
I  ran  up  to  the  bridge,  and  passed  the  captain, 
who  was  still  stretching,  he  was  that  sleepy,  and 


On  Land  and  Sea  157 

I  said,  '  Cap'n,  we'd  better  get  off,'  and  he  said, 
'  You  better  go,  I  won't  yet  awhile.'  I  found 
they  had  a  boat  swinging  clear  with  thirteen  men 
in  it  and  I  jumped  in  and  the  mate  ordered  them 
to  pay  out  the  ropes. 

"  The  ship  was  listing  fast  to  the  other  side, 
and  we  dropped  down  in  a  hurry  and  as  we  went 
down  we  hit  the  head  of  a  poor  devil  caught  in 
his  room  and  trying  to  get  out  by  a  port  hole. 
Busted  it  right  off.  When  we'd  got  about  to 
the  water  the  painter  stuck  and  the  ship's  list 
was  lifting  us.  '  Bust  it  with  the  ax,'  said  the 
mate,  and  I  hit  the  painter  and  busted  her  off 
and  we  dropped  into  the  water  and  nearly  cap- 
sized. Now,  the  cook  had  overslept  himself, 
and  was  coming  down  the  painter  hand  over 
hand,  and  when  I  busted  it  off  he  let  go  and 
dropped  right  down  on  us — broke  a  piece  off  the 
edge  of  the  boat.  We  thought  we  were  going 
over  that  time,  but  she  righted  herself  and  we 
fished  the  cook  out  of  the  water. 

"  '  We'll  shove  off,'  said  the  mate.  '  Nobody 
else  is  coming  down  this  side :  you  can  damn 
near  see  her  keel.'  So  we  pulled  away  from  her 
and  when  we  were  about  two  hundred  yards 
out,  down  she  went.  The  mate  pulled  out  his 


158  On  Land  and  Sea 

watch.  '  Four  minutes  and  eight  seconds,'  he 
said.  About  noon  a  French  ship  came  along  and 
picked  us  up." 

"How  many  were  lost?"  asked  the  student. 

"  Sixty-eight.  There  was  another  boat  got 
off,  but  she  capsized.  The  water  was  mighty 
rough,  you  see." 

The  student  looked  out  of  the  window,  visibly 
overcome  by  a  sense  of  the  incomprehensible. 
The  sailor's  head  resumed  its  quick  movements 
of  awareness  and  curiosity. 

"  Say,"  he  said,  "  in  that  school  where  you  go, 
are  there  any  girls?" 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  the  student  languidly.  "  There 
are  some.  But  most  of  the  fellows  don't  have 
anything  to  do  with  them." 

"Why  not?"  demanded  the  sailor,  turning 
his  handsome,  astonished  face  full  upon  the 
student. 

"  Well,  you  see,  it  isn't  exactly  the  best  form," 
said  the  student  gropingly. 

"Not  the  best  form?"  repeated  the  sailor,  a 
veil  of  bewilderment  rapidly  shading  into  dis- 
gust shrouding  his  eyes.  "  Oh!  " 

The  student  again  turned  to  the  window,  in 
ostensible  indifference,  but  soon  his  cheek  began 


On  Land  and  Sea  159 

to  flush  as  the  realization  of  the  sailor's  con- 
tempt penetrated  his  consciousness.  At  the  first 
stop,  where  the  passengers  thinned  out,  the 
student  betook  himself  to  another  seat. 


B 


XIII 

The  Lynching  in  Bass  County 

ASS  COUNTY  is  mostly  rough  land.  At 
one  corner  it  dips  down  into  the  river  bot- 
tom, and  here  you  see  a  few  good  farms,  owned 
by  the  merchants  and  doctors  and  lawyers  of 
Coxville  and  worked  by  Bohemian  tenants. 
Coxville  is  the  county  seat  and  the  only  railway 
station  in  the  county.  It  is  just  at  the  edge  of 
the  bottom,  where  a  half  dozen  narrow  valleys 
spread  out  like  fingers  into  the  upland.  Motor 
parties  from  way  across  the  state  sometimes 
come  chugging  up  the  winding  valley  roads. 
The  scenery  is  fine,  the  ladies  say:  we're  lucky 
to  live  in  so  lovely  a  spot.  But  scenery  is  mighty 
hard  to  work.  It  doesn't  even  make  good  pas- 
ture, and  we've  got  to  live  somehow. 

Coxville,  the  tourists  say,  is  one  of  the  pret- 
tiest towns  in  the  state.  It  is  certainly  pretty, 
with  its  shady  streets  on  the  flat  and  big  brick 
houses  planted  on  the  spurs  of  the  hills  above. 
But  Coxville  is  a  den  of  thieves.  There  are  five 

160 


The  Lynching  in  Bass  County       161 

general  stores  all  working  in  cahoots.  Every 
one  of  them  has  two  sets  of  scales,  one  weighing 
small  for  your  butter  and  chickens,  the  other 
weighing  big  for  the  merchant's  sugar  and  coffee 
and  dried  fruit.  After  they've  skinned  you  on 
the  weight,  they  skin  you  on  the  price.  They've 
divided  us  farmers  up  among  them.  My  trade, 
for  instance,  belongs  to  Miller's  store.  If  I  get 
mad  and  go  to  another  store,  I  get  even  worse 
treatment  than  Miller  was  giving  me.  That's 
what  they  call  a  gentleman's  agreement  in  Cox- 
ville.  There  are  three  stock  buyers — mighty 
good  friends  they  are,  though  they  make  a  great 
noise  about  competition.  They  pay  the  same 
prices,  about  a  dollar  a  hundred  too  low,  if  you 
figure  out  the  Chicago  market  reports.  There 
is  a  bank  in  Coxville,  but  it  doesn't  do  business 
with  farmers.  It  lends  money  at  seven  per  cent 
to  old  Peter  Hammond,  who  lets  us  have  it  for 
two  per  cent  a  month,  and  makes  us  pay  a  bonus 
for  getting  it. 

Oh  yes,  Coxville  is  a  pretty  village.  They 
live  well  down  there,  and  we  half  starve  up  on 
our  hill  farms.  If  they  have  a  job  of  hard  work, 
they  hire  some  of  our  boys  to  do  it  and  pay  back 
a  little  of  the  money  they  sweat  out  of  us.  They 


1 62        The  Lynching  in  Bass  County 

take  our  girls  for  housework  and  make  servants 
out  of  them — girls  of  real  American  stock,  not 
Bohunks — but  we're  so  poor  we  have  to  stand 
it.  And  they  don't  take  too  good  care  of  them. 
Every  now  and  then  a  girl  comes  crying  home 
and  some  young  blood  from  Coxville  goes  off 
for  a  tour  around  the  world.  More  than  once 
I've  been  at  secret  meetings  at  Lon  Baker's 
shack,  where  we  figured  on  going  down  and 
cleaning  out  the  whole  nest.  But  we  never  did 
anything. 

"  We're  serfs,  that's  what  we  are !  "  Lon  al- 
ways declared.  "  They  take  our  crops,  they  take 
our  work,  they  take  our  girls.  And  we  just  sit 
around  and  jaw." 

Lon  was  a  mighty  good  speaker,  and  well  read. 
He  took  the  Appeal  to  Reason,  and  about  knew 
by  heart  everything  that  was  in  it.  But  no- 
body took  much  stock  in  Lon.  When  we  came 
away  from  his  secret  meeting  somebody  was 
sure  to  say :  "  Hell  of  a  place,  Coxville.  They'll 
even  take  Lon's  crops,  Lon's  work,  and  Lon's 
girls."  Then  everybody  would  laugh  and  side 
with  Coxville.  You  see,  Lon  never  had  any 
crops  to  speak  of,  and  scarcely  ever  did  a  lick  of 
work.  And  you  ought  to  see  Lon's  girls!  Of 


The  Lynching  in  Bass  County       163 

all  the  skinny,  freckle-faced,  red-haired,  shriek- 
ing cross-patches —  But  poor  things,  they 
didn't  pick  the  father  they  were  to  take  after. 

We  grumbled  and  ranted,  but  that  was  all, 
until  we  got  track  of  what  was  going  on  down 
at  the  courthouse.  The  county  offices,  of  course, 
had  always  belonged  to  Coxville.  There  was  a 
Republican  clique  and  a  Democratic  clique,  and 
every  four  or  six  years,  we'd  put  one  clique  out 
and  the  other  in,  and  precious  little  good  it  did. 
Taxes  kept  going  higher,  and  we  got  to  wonder- 
ing what  in  thunder  became  of  the  money. 
There  never  was  any  to  repair  the  bridges,  and 
finally  we  had  to  ford  the  streams  when  we  drove 
to  town.  The  county  was  always  years  behind 
in  its  school  money,  and  when  we  served  on 
juries  we  were  paid  in  warrants  we  had  to  dis- 
count with  Pete  Hammond  at  sixty  cents  on  the 
dollar.  Lon  Baker  went  all  over  the  county  get- 
ting information  about  the  taxes  collected — he 
never  paid  his — and  calculated  that  thousands 
and  thousands  of  dollars  just  disappeared.  At 
elections  the  clique  that  was  out  would  yell  for 
an  investigation,  but  if  they  got  in  they  never 
found  anything.  Finally  we  made  up  an  inde- 
pendent party  and  elected  a  farmer  treasurer, 


164        The  Lynching  in  Bass  County 

and  got  an  expert  accountant  to  go  over  the 
books. 

The  expert  worked  for  six  weeks  and  found 
the  retiring  treasurer,  Dr.  Williams,  about  a 
thousand  dollars  short.  The  doctor  shelled  out 
and  moved  to  have  his  bond  released,  but  we 
weren't  satisfied.  The  doctor  had  a  good  salary, 
eighteen  hundred  a  year,  but  Lon  did  some  fig- 
uring and  just  about  proved  that  the  doctor 
spent  a  lot  more  than  that.  After  he  was  elected 
treasurer,  the  doctor,  who  was  nearly  sixty,  had 
married  a  young  wife.  She  was  a  great  beauty, 
and  Lord,  she  knew  how  to  make  money  fly! 
She  kept  her  house  furnished  like  a  palace  and 
always  full  of  company.  I  knew  something 
about  what  was  going  on  there  because  my 
sweetheart  worked  for  her.  Lucy  had  to  wear 
a  black  dress  and  a  foolish  little  lace  cap  that 
made  me  mad  whenever  I  thought  of  it.  But 
Lucy  adored  Mrs.  Williams,  and  Lucy's  got  a 
lot  of  good  sense. 

Well,  we  made  up  our  minds  that  the  expert 
had  been  bought  off,  so  we  got  a  new  one,  and 
Lon  stood  at  his  shoulder  for  a  month.  There 
wasn't  any  whitewashing  this  time.  The  doc- 
tor's accounts  were  over  forty  thousand  dollars 


The  Lynching  in  Bass  County        165 

short.  Of  course  he  demanded  a  new  investi- 
gation, but  we  got  him  indicted  for  embezzle- 
ment. The  superior  judge  was  an  old  friend 
of  the  doctor's  and  quashed  the  indictment:  we 
had  to  start  over  again.  Finally  we  got  him  to 
trial,  but  somehow  they  managed  to  hang  the 
jury.  We  started  a  new  prosecution,  but  every- 
thing went  against  us.  Our  lawyers  gave  our 
case  away,  the  judge  ruled  against  us,  our  wit- 
nesses went  back  on  their  testimony.  It  was 
plain,  the  doctor  still  had  some  of  that  forty 
thousand,  and  we'd  never  get  him  till  it  was  all 
spent.  Down  in  Coxville  everybody  was  talking 
compromise.  If  we'd  let  the  doctor  off,  his 
friends  would  pay  back  ten  or  fifteen  thousand, 
and  the  county  would  be  saved  the  cost  of  years 
of  litigation. 

This  was  more  than  we  could  stand.  All  over 
the  county  the  farmers  were  holding  meetings: 
what  they  talked  of  doing  to  Coxville  I  wouldn't 
dare  to  say.  Lon  Baker  spoke  at  every  meet- 
ing: what  he  said  sounded  like  mighty  good 
sense,  too.  What  was  at  stake,  now,  Lon  ar- 
gued, was  not  just  money,  but  the  Law  itself, 
the  Law  that  was  there  before  courts  were  cre- 
ated and  that  would  remain  after  the  courts  had 


166        The  Lynching  in  Bass  County 

rotted  away.  The  Law,  he  said,  didn't  need  the 
courts:  any  body  of  freemen  had  the  right  and 
duty  to  take  the  Law  into  their  own  hands  when 
the  courts  had  failed.  Our  court  had  failed  and 
it  was  time  to  act. 

One  day  the  word  passed  around  to  be  at 
Ashton's  mill  about  a  mile  above  Coxville,  at  ten 
o'clock  at  night.  Lucy  had  been  getting  sus- 
picious and  insisted  on  my  passing  the  evening 
at  her  house,  but  I  managed  to  get  away.  There 
were  already  fifty  or  sixty  men  at  the  mill  when 
I  got  there.  Lon  Baker  had  a  bunch  of  pine 
knots  for  torches:  popular  justice,  he  said,  had 
been  executed  in  old  days  by  torch  light.  Most 
of  the  other  men  carried  lanterns. 

Nothing  had  been  said  about  what  we  were 
going  to  do,  but  there  were  a  lot  of  guns  in  the 
crowd  and  several  men  had  brought  ropes.  Lon 
had  a  rope  and  seemed  rather  put  out  that  there 
were  others.  They  might  arouse  suspicion,  he 
said,  as  if  the  whole  county  hadn't  been  in  the 
secret.  We  waited  until  there  were  about  a  hun- 
dred of  us  and  then  struck  out  over  the  hill,  to 
get  to  the  doctor's  house  without  passing 
through  the  village.  We  walked  fast  and  talked 
mighty  little.  Lon  was  in  his  glory,  leading  a 


The  Lynching  in  Bass  County        167 

body  of  Anglo-Saxon  freemen  to  the  defense 
of  the  Law.  So  he  put  it.  But  the  rest  of  us 
felt  rather  sick  of  our  job.  Every  man  shaded 
his  face  as  well  as  he  could  with  his  hat;  if  the 
light  of  a  lantern  flashed  on  him  he  seemed  to 
dodge.  You  see,  the  doctor  was  a  pleasant  old 
fellow  we  had  all  chatted  with.  The  Law  had 
to  be  vindicated  but  we'd  rather  have  vindicated 
it  on  someone  else. 

We  put  out  our  lights,  except  Lon's  torch, 
and  scattered  in  groups  among  the  blooming 
lilacs  on  the  doctor's  lawn.  My  post  was  near 
the  parlor  window.  It  was  wide  open  and  I 
could  see  the  doctor  sitting  in  an  armchair.  To 
see  him  for  the  first  time,  you'd  say  he  was 
about  forty :  anyway  he  was  straight  and  quick, 
smooth-shaven  and  hardly  gray.  He  was  rather 
pale  this  night,  and  looked  tired.  Mrs.  Williams 
was  at  the  piano,  very  fine  and  aristocratic.  She 
certainly  was  a  beauty !  She  seemed  to  be  happy ; 
anyway  the  music  she  was  playing  was  very 
sweet  and  gay.  At  that  moment  most  of  us 
were  for  backing  out,  I  believe.  But  Lon  went 
up  to  the  door  and  gave  it  a  terrible  thump. 
Mrs.  Williams  sprang  from  her  music  stool:  the 
doctor  rose  slowly  and  stepped  to  the  door.  As 


1 68        The  Lynching  in  Bass  County 

he  opened  it  everybody  got  out  of  the  path  of 
white  light — everybody  but  Lon,  who  waved 
his  sputtering  torch. 

"  Good  evening,  Lon,"  the  doctor  said  quietly. 
He  looked  around  rather  sharply  and  he  must 
have  got  glimpses  of  the  men  among  the  lilac 
bushes.  If  he  was  uneasy  though,  he  didn't 
show  it.  "What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"  We  represent  the  Law,"  said  Lon,  making 
his  voice  as  deep  as  a  drum.  "  You  can  bribe 
the  courts,  but  you  can't  beat  the  Law." 

"Oh  dear,  what  is  the  matter?"  Mrs.  Wil- 
liams appeared  beside  the  doctor  in  the  door- 
way and  clutched  his  arm  anxiously. 

"You  can't  beat  the  Law,"  said  Lon  again. 
"  You  have  stolen  the  people's  money.  You 
have  suborned  witnesses  and  bribed  the  courts. 
You  thought  the  Law  was  dead.  But  it  has 
raised  us  up,  Anglo-Saxon  freemen,  to  execute 
its  decrees." 

"  One  moment,  gentlemen,  and  we  can  ar- 
range our  business  to  your  satisfaction.  My 
dear,  will  you  please  go  inside?  This  is  politics, 
and  we  may  get  a  little  rough." 

"  Yes,  get  her  out  of  sight,"  said  Lon.  "  She 
was  the  cause  of  it  all.  You  stole  our  money 


The  Lynching  in  Bass  County       169 

to  make  her  better  than  our  wives  and  daugh- 
ters." 

"I  won't  go,"  said  Mrs.  Williams,  "I  can't 
understand  what  this  is  all  about." 

"  Oh,  you  can't?  "  said  Lon.  "  You  can't  un- 
derstand that  we're  sore  about  the  forty  thou- 
sand you  made  him  steal?" 

Mrs.  Williams  first  went  white  and  then  red. 
"  I  made  him  steal?  "  Nobody  had  ever  spoken 
to  her  like  that  in  all  her  life. 

"  Suppose  we  leave  the  women  out  of  this," 
said  the  doctor.  "  It's  true.  I  took  the  county's 
money.  I'm  ready  to  take  the  consequences." 

"You  took  the  county's  money?"  Mrs.  Wil- 
liams exclaimed.  "  But  you  said  it  wasn't  true. 
You  said  it  was  all  politics." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  doctor. 

"But  why?"  Mrs.  Williams  seemed  be- 
wildered. Lon  laughed,  but  the  rest  of  us  just 
felt  sorry  for  her.  That  kind  of  a  woman  never 
thinks  where  the  money  comes  from,  I  sup- 
pose. 

"Why?"  the  doctor  repeated.  "You  knew 
we  weren't  living  on  my  salary." 

"  But  I  thought— I  thought  you  had " 

"  You    thought   he   had   money,"    said    Lon. 


170        The  Lynching  in  Bass  County 

"  You  married  him  for  his  money  and  he  didn't 
have  any.  So  he  had  to  steal  some." 

"  It  isn't  true,"  Mrs.  Williams  took  her  hand 
from  the  doctor's  arm.  "  You  know  it  isn't 
true." 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  doctor,  "  but  if  it  were 
— I'm  an  old  man,  my  dear,  and  it's  precious 
little  I  had  to  give  you." 

Mrs.  Williams  looked  down  at  her  white 
breast  with  the  twinkling  necklace,  her  pink 
dress  and  heavy  lace.  You  could  see  what  she 
was  thinking.  For  all  her  beauty,  she'd  been 
bought,  bought  with  stolen  money.  She  knew 
that  was  what  we  were  all  thinking.  She  put 
up  her  chin,  turned  round  and  walked  swiftly 
back  into  the  house.  She  seemed  to  feel  so  in- 
sulted and  ashamed  that  there  wasn't  any  room 
left  in  her  mind  for  the  doctor's  troubles.  She 
was  deserting  the  doctor,  and  deserting  him  for 
good;  there  wasn't  a  man  of  us  who  couldn't 
see  that.  The  doctor  saw  it  all  right,  too.  Poor 
old  devil,  all  his  smart  youthfulness  dropped 
from  him.  All  at  once  you  noticed  how  wrin- 
kled, how  gray  he  was.  So  that's  what  it  means 
to  be  old !  I'd  never  realized  that  before.  Maybe 
my  Lucy's  arms  aren't  so  white  and  smooth  and 


The  Lynching  in  Bass  County        171 

tapering  as  those  I  just  saw,  but  they  come  free, 
if  I  do  pick  a  crow's  living  out  of  my  hill  farm. 
And  I'd  bet  my  life,  if  I  were  caught  stealing, 
Lucy  would  stand  by  me.  That's  what  it  means 
to  be  young. 

"  Well,  gentlemen,"  said  the  doctor  wearily, 
"  why  don't  you  go  ahead?  " 

"  Yes,  why  don't  we?  "  cried  Lon,  waving  his 
torch. 

But  a  huge,  husky  voiced  farmer  I  didn't 
know  pushed  himself  in  front  of  Lon. 

"  Doctor,  we're  tired  of  bein'  robbed.  I  don't 
know  as  I  blame  you.  I  reckon  we'd  all  steal 
for  a  .woman,  leastwise  such  a  pretty  one.  But 
it's  got  to  stop.  Next  man  we  catch  stealing 
from  this  county  gets  the  rope." 

"  Next  man !  "  yelled  Lon.  But  it  was  plain 
that  everybody  wanted  to  compromise  on  the 
"  next  man."  We  felt  the  doctor  had  got  about 
what  was  coming  to  him,  anyway.  Already 
numbers  of  men  were  moving  toward  the  gate 
or  leaping  the  picket  fence. 

I  got  away  as  quickly  as  I  could,  wanting  to 
avoid  Lon,  who  lives  above  me  on  the  same 
road.  But  Lon  was  walking  fast  too  in  his  rage, 
and  overtook  me  half  a  mile  out  of  town. 


172       The  Lynching  in  Bass  County 

"  There's  no  Law  left  in  this  country !  "  he  ex- 
claimed bitterly.  "  The  Law  is  dead.  We're 
only  serfs.  Not  a  drop  of  free  Anglo-Saxon 
blood  in  us." 

There  was  something  in  what  Lon  was  saying. 
The  Law  was  dead,  but  I  wasn't  mourning.  Up 
a  hillside  to  the  right  there  was  a  light  burning. 
It  was  late,  but  Lucy'd  like  to  know  everything 
was  all  right;  no  doubt  she  was  worried.  So  I 
let  Lon  get  a  little  ahead  of  me  in  the  darkness 
and  slipped  away  on  a  side  path,  glad  to  hear 
the  last  of  his  ranting:  "The  Law  is  dead. 
We're  serfs,  plain  serfs." 


XIV 
Ivan  the  Terrible 

IVAN  he  was  christened  because  he  was  born 
in  the  days  of  universal  enthusiasm  when 
the  Russian  Ivan  rose  in  his  might  and  crushed 
to  atoms  the  maleficent  throne  of  the  Romanoffs. 
"  The  Terrible  "  means  only  that  his  parents  are 
young  and  ultra-modern  and  malign  their  off- 
spring where  the  parents  of  old  time  bragged 
about  them.  Maligning  is  more  piquant;  and 
then  too — but  this  is  psychology  of  the  uncon- 
scious— it  wards  off  the  evil  eye.  For  himself, 
Ivan  is  just  a  wee  mite  of  pink  flesh  and  blue 
eyes  and  turned-up  nose,  sparse  blond  hair  and 
a  rather  pathetic  desire  to  please,  as  you  can  tell 
from  the  soft  glow  with  which  his  eyes  meet 
yours,  if  you  know  babies.  His  mother  doesn't, 
and  that  Ivan  seems  to  understand,  for  all  the 
brevity  of  his  tale  of  days.  I  have  often  ob- 
served on  his  face  a  thin  veil  of  infantile  despair, 
as  one  after  another  of  his  devices  for  pleasing 
fall  flat. 

173 


174  Ivan  the  Terrible 

"Ivan,  Ivan,  don't  do  that!"  I've  been 
tempted  to  cry  out  when  I've  observed  him  try- 
ing on  his  mother  the  art  of  rolling  up  his  eyes 
to  show  all  white.  Doubtless  that  has  worked 
on  the  Negro  maid  at  the  day  nursery.  But  the 
effect  on  his  mother  is  to  produce  a  little  shiver. 
That  trick  doesn't  go  well  with  a  pink  turned-up 
nose.  His  mother  might  take  the  will  for  the 
deed,  you  say.  Yes:  but  she  doesn't  know 
babies. 

"  How  preposterous !  "  I  hear  you  murmur. 
"  She  has  a  baby :  ergo,  she  knows  babies." 
That,  I  admit,  is  the  orthodox  lore.  With  the 
birth  of  her  first  child,  a  vast  volume  of  knowl- 
edge that  she  never  before  had  a  chance  of 
acquiring  is  supposed  to  descend  upon  the 
mother.  But  in  the  face  of  universal  opinion  I 
deny  that  there  is  any  evidence  whatever  in  sup- 
port of  the  theory  of  the  miraculous  afflatus  of 
knowledge.  The  first  baby — and  any  baby,  for 
the  matter  of  that — is  a  little  stranger,  under  ob- 
ligation to  win  his  mother's  heart  if  he  would 
be  happy,  as  the  wandering  youth  of  folk  tales 
is  under  the  obligation  to  win  the  heart  of  his 
princess.  It  is  hard  to  say  which  has  the  more 
difficult  task,  but  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  baby 


Ivan  the  Terrible  175 

has  the  advantage  of  a  better  technique,  the 
more  effective  because  it  is  erroneously  assumed 
to  be  unconscious.  The  wandering  youth  usually 
failed;  the  baby  usually  succeeds.  But  not  al- 
ways, and  Ivan  had  not  succeeded.  Of  course 
his  mother  liked  him,  but  she  had  retained  her 
liberty.  And  from  Ivan's  point  of  view,  that  was 
failure. 

.  Let  it  not  be  rashly  assumed  that  Ivan  is 
a  stupid  and  incompetent  baby.  What  has 
thwarted  his  enterprise  is  a  mighty  social  force, 
the  Economic  Independence  of  Woman.  Theo- 
dosia  Garnett,  Ivan's  mother,  is  convinced  that 
there  is  no  majesty  and  no  might  save  in  the 
Independent  Pay  Envelope.  Therefore  for  al- 
most a  year  now,  ever  since  Ivan  was  a  month 
old,  Theodosia  has  gone  forth  with  her  husband 
every  morning  on  the  8:14  from  the  suburban 
village  where  I  also  live.  Ivan  spends  his  days  in 
the  efficient  nursery  conducted  by  Mrs.  Hols- 
worthy.  The  day  nursery  charges  are  twenty 
dollars  a  week,  and  Theodosia  earns  twenty-five. 
Her  commutation  is  $9.67  monthly  and  her 
lunches  must  cost  fifteen  dollars.  Calculate  for 
yourself  the  net  economic  gain  due  to  Economic 
Independence.  One  day  on  the  train  in  I  started 


176  Ivan  the  Terrible 

gleefully  to  make  the  calculation  for  Theodosia's 
benefit.  But  Mr.  Garnett  trod  on  my  foot.  Usu- 
ally when  I  debate  with  Theodosia  about  Ivan 
Mr.  Garnett  observes  strict  neutrality.  The  ad- 
vantage lies  with  her,  for  she  is  a  mother  and 
what  am  I  that  I  should  presume  to  know  any- 
thing about  babies?  But  I  have  succeeded  in 
creating  the  impression  that  I  know  economics; 
therefore  Mr.  Garnett  will  not  permit  the  debate 
to  enter  the  economic  field  where  it  might  be 
dangerous. 

"  Of  course  it  figures  out  absurdly,"  he  ad- 
mitted to  me  over  the  'phone  after  we  had  ar- 
rived at  our  several  offices.  "  But  she  makes 
herself  think  it  pays.  It's  a  principle  with  her 
to  believe  that.  So  I  have  to  believe  it,  and  you 
will,  too,  if  you're  going  to  ride  in  the  same  car 
with  us." 

Theodosia  works  in  a  department  store. 
That,  too,  is  principle.  Economic  Independence 
of  Woman  will  get  nowhere,  she  says,  if  it  is 
confined  to  the  fine  arts  and  the  higher  profes- 
sions. It  must  make  its  way  among  the  masses 
of  women  who  can't  expect  to  do  anything  but 
take  their  places  in  trade  and  industry.  In  idle 
hours  I  sometimes  go  through  the  department 


Ivan  the  Terrible  177 

store  aisles  just  to  see  what  function  in  the  con- 
crete Theodosia  is  performing.  The  last  time  I 
was  there  I  found  her  presiding  over  a  sale  of 
cretonnes — the  most  terrible  cretonnes  that  can 
be  found  even  in  this  day  of  designs  originating 
for  the  most  part  in  padded  cells.  I  saw  her 
calmly  measure  out  an  infinity  of  horror  for  a 
wan  husband,  by  fatal  error  intrusted  with  dis- 
cretion in  the  selection  of  household  dra- 
peries. That  cretonne  haunts  me  still.  Black 
ground;  interlacing  japonica  stems;  leaves  of 
Paris  green ;  flowers  of  London  purple ;  pea- 
cocks outlined  in  white,  with  plumes  of  vitriol 
blue. 

"  So  this  is  economic  independence,"  I  re- 
marked to  Theodosia  in  the  interval  of  custom- 
ers. "  Your  firm  took  that  poor  citizen's  money 
away  from  him  and  slipped  a  curse  on  him  be- 
sides. Your  economic  independence  comes  out 
of  the  booty." 

"  I'm  so  glad  I  got  rid  of  that  cretonne,"  re- 
plied Theodosia  calmly.  "  There's  only  a  rem- 
nant left  and  somebody  else  will  have  to  handle 
it." 

"  You  admit,  then,  that  it  was  robbery,"  I  said 
severely. 


178  Ivan  the  Terrible 

Theodosia  laughed.  "  It  had  been  manufac- 
tured, so  it  had  to  be  sold.  I  sold  it.  That's  all 
there  is  to  it." 

On  Labor  Day  I  was  sauntering  about  my 
yard,  fretting  over  the  ravages  of  the  scale  on 
my  neglected  pear  tree  when  Theodosia  and  her 
husband  stopped  at  my  gate. 

"  Come  along,"  called  Theodosia.  "  We're  go- 
ing over  to  the  day  nursery  to  call  on  Ivan. 
Maybe  when  you  see  it  you'll  change  your  mind 
about  it." 

The  day  nursery  is  a  quaint  old  colonial  house, 
deep  in  the  shade  of  ancient  elms,  just  the  kind 
of  place  that  is  supposed  to  appeal  to  babies. 
The  door  was  opened  by  a  harassed  Czecho- 
slovak or  Jugo-Slav  maid.  She  stared  at  us  in 
bewilderment;  plainly  she  did  not  recognize  the 
Garnetts. 

"  New  maid,"  I  remarked  as  we  seated  our- 
selves in  the  "  tastefully  decorated  "  parlor,  try- 
ing to  ignore  the  shrill  chorus  of  waitings  from 
the  rear  of  the  house. 

"  Yes,"  said  Theodosia,  "  Mrs.  Holsworthy  has 
no  end  of  trouble  keeping  her  maids." 

"  Labor  turnover  one  thousand  per  cent,"  I 
translated.  "  Poor  Ivan.  No  sooner  does  he 


Ivan  the  Terrible  179 

learn  how  to  win  one  of  them  than  she  leaves. 
That  accounts  for  his  uncertain  technique." 

"  Technique,  technique,"  exclaimed  Theo- 
dosia  impatiently.  "  Will  you  never  get  over 
your  fantastic  theory  of  babies?  But  here  comes 
Mrs.  Holsworthy." 

"  Good-morning,  dear  parents,"  sounded  a 
voice  of  clover  honey.  Theodosia  presented  me. 
Mrs.  Holsworthy  offered  me  a  smooth,  limp 
hand.  She  is  a  large  woman  with  a  brow  noth- 
ing could  ruffle,  eyes  vacuously  serene,  brown 
hair  done  most  sedately,  brown  and  most  sedate 
dress.  Just  the  type  of  woman  that  bachelor 
men  and  economically  independent  young 
women  describe,  God  knows  why,  as  a 
"  motherly  woman." 

"  I  hear  music  in  the  nursery,"  said  Mrs.  Hols- 
worthy sweetly.  "  Precious  little  souls,  it's  good 
for  their  lungs."  She  held  up  a  plump  forefinger. 
"  If  you  will  be  very  still,  dear  parents,  you  may 
come  in  and  see  them."  She  smiled  winningly 
upon  me.  "  You  may  come  too,  if  a  mere  man 
knows  how  to  be  good." 

The  nursery  was  a  long  room  with  white 
enameled  walls,  white  linoleum  floors,  blue  cur- 
tains, blue  shades,  half  drawn.  Very  aseptic,  evi- 


180  Ivan  the  Terrible 

dently.  There  were  eight  white  enamel  cribs, 
each  with  its  baby  howling  itself  to  a  ruddy  hue. 
In  the  act  of  crying  all  babies  look  much  alike. 
Left  to  myself  I  could  not  have  told  which  was 
Ivan.  For  guidance  I  glanced  surreptitiously  at 
Theodosia :  mother  instinct  and  all  that.  No, 
Theodosia  was  just  as  uncertain  as  I  was.  But 
Mrs.  Holsworthy  came  to  our  relief. 

"  Here  we  have  our  dear  little  Ivan.  Wonder- 
ful little  man.  What  a  splendid  voice  he  has!  " 

Maybe  it  was  a  splendid  voice,  but  it  was 
growing  hoarse.  Whatever  the  occasion  of  his 
woe,  it  was  plain  that  he  had  had  enough  of  it. 
All  he  wanted  was  the  slightest  excuse  for  laugh- 
ing. Just  a  word,  just  a  pat  on  his  little  cheek 
would  have  sufficed.  I  glanced  narrowly  at  the 
motherly  Mrs.  Holsworthy.  Not  the  least  indi- 
cation that  she  had  any  perception  of  Ivan's 
state  of  mind.  It  was  as  clear  as  day  that  she 
never  came  among  her  charges  except  when 
there  were  visitors.  For  she  moved  serenely 
among  the  despairing  babies  like  a  Homeric  god- 
dess above  the  desperate  slaughters  of  men. 

"Isn't  she  wonderful?  "  cried  Theodosia  ec- 
statically as  we  issued  from  the  gates  of  the  day 
nursery. 


Ivan  the  Terrible 


"  She  is  an  alligator  in  disguise,"  I  replied  sav- 
agely. , 

Mr.  Garnett  coughed  warningly  but  my  opin- 
ions would  out. 

"  She  ought  to  be  put  in  charge  of  baby  rab- 
bits. If  you  spoil  one  batch,  there's  another  be- 
fore you  can  begin  to  regret." 

"  Tell  me,  please,"  said  Theodosia  in  a  tense, 
even  tone.  "  Do  you  like  to  be  disagreeable?  Or 
do  you  come  by  it  through  heredity?  " 

A  fortnight  later  Mr.  Garnett  called  at  my 
office. 

"  I've  missed  you  on  the  train  the  last  few 
days.  Well,  Theodosia  has  thrown  up  her 
job." 

"What?"  I  exclaimed.  "How  did  it  hap- 
pen?" 

"  To  put  it  in  your  terms,  Ivan  won  her,  at 
last." 

"Does  she  consider  it  her  duty?"  I  inquired 
cautiously. 

"  No.  She  considers  it  a  vice.  But  she  just 
can't  help  it." 

"  It  looks  as  if  it  would  last,  then,"  I  reflected. 

"  Of  course  it  will  last.  You  can't  drag  her 
away."  Mr.  Garnett  rose  to  go.  "  Come  and 


1 82  Ivan  the  Terrible 

see  us.  She  will  expect  you  to  know  it.  But  not 
to  notice  it." 

The  next  Sunday  afternoon  I  called  on  the 
Garnetts.  Theodosia  was  busy  teasing  smiles 
out  of  Ivan.  I  talked  about  the  probable  length 
of  the  war,  about  reconstruction  and  whatever 
else  there  was  that  might  not  indicate  that  I 
noticed. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  I  threw  up  my  job," 
said  Theodosia  suddenly. 

"  Yes,"  I  said.  "  It  was  a  great  blow  to 
me." 

"Did  you  see  what  this  darling  did?"  cried 
Theodosia.  "  He  understood  what  you  said." 

"Understood?  "  I  repeated,  mystified. 

"  Yes.    You  said  blow  and  he  blew." 

"  No !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  That  was  a  coinci- 
dence." 

"Blow,  darling!" 

Ivan  puckered  up  his  smiling  lips.  "  Whew!  " 
he  breathed  manfully. 

"I  see,"  I  remarked  bitterly.  "To  all  my 
grave  philosophy  on  babies  and  the  Economic 
Independence  of  Woman  you  turned  a  deaf  ear. 
But  this  terrible  little  Ivan  had  only  to  acquire 
the  art  of  blowing,  and  you  were  converted." 


Ivan  the  Terrible  183 

"  All  that  grave  philosophizing  was  nothing 
but  words,"  said  Theodosia  vindictively.  "  But 
when  Ivan  the  Terrible  blows " 

"  Whew,"  blew  Ivan  triumphantly. 


w 


XV 
Carnegied 

HEN  Hannis  University  was  first  ad- 
mitted to  the  benefits  of  the  Carnegie 
pension  fund,  there  was  not  a  member  of  the 
faculty  who  rejoiced  more  extravagantly  than 
Professor  Bowen.  Ten  years  more  of  harness, 
and  then  liberty!  For  weeks  the  professor 
walked  and  read  and  lectured  absently,  in  a 
dream,  a  dream  of  the  Seven  Hills  of  Rome  and 
a  quiet  apartment  near  the  Vatican  library.  He 
could  already  feel  the  marbly  chill  of  the  long 
corridors,  and  the  quickening  of  his  blood  as,  late 
in  the  afternoon,  he  would  step  out  into  the  red 
Roman  sunshine.  How  rapidly  he  would  trans- 
form into  finished  tomes  of  clean,  weighty  text 
and  multifarious  footnotes  all  those  literary 
projects,  sketched  in  or  just  outlined,  that  had 
lain  dormant  for  so  many  years  in  the  drawers  of 
his  office  desk.  But  that  was  ten  years  ago,  and 
now,  as  he  stood  on  the  threshold  of  liberty,  he 
hesitated.  Retirement  he  felt  sure  would  be  op- 

184 


Carnegied  18$ 

tional  with  him.  The  university  would  certainly 
prefer  to  keep  him  in  active  service.  Should  he, 
then,  exercise  his  option?  He  still  wanted  his 
liberty.  He  still  wanted  to  write  his  books.  But 
a  new  problem  had  arisen  to  vex  him,  the  prob- 
lem of  his  successor.  It  is  one  thing  to  abandon 
your  shoes.  That  may  be  very  pleasant.  It  is  a 
quite  different  thing  to  behold  another  standing 
in  them.  That  is  very  disagreeable,  unless  your 
successor  is  worthy. 

Now,  a  worthy  successor  is  dreadfully  hard 
for  any  man  to  find.  In  the  last  year  Professor 
Bowen  had  again  and  again  reviewed  the  quali- 
fications of  the  three  men  holding  rank  under 
him.  The  oldest  one  was  plainly  disqualified;  he 
had  a  mad  wife,  poor  fellow,  and  his  sorrows  had 
played  havoc  with  his  scholarship.  The  next  in 
rank  was  also  disqualified.  He  had  received  his 
training  in  Germany  and  had  got  sundry  articles 
into  German  Zeitschriften,  an  honor  that  had 
gone  to  his  head  and  had  made  him  a  devoted 
partisan  of  the  Kaiser.  But  the  third  assistant, 
Professor  Jores,  was  politically  correct  and  do- 
mestically neutral,  being  a  bachelor,  like  Pro- 
fessor Bowen  himself. 

Jores  was  an  alumnus  of  the  university,  an  im- 


1 86  Cam  eg  ted 

portant  point  in  his  favor.  He  had  been  one  of 
Professor  Bowen's  first  and  most  brilliant  stu- 
dents, and  when  he  became  instructor,  he  had 
made  it  his  chief  ambition  to  expound,  eluci- 
date and  defend  Professor  Bowen's  system  of 
thought.  It  must  be  understood  that  forty  years 
ago  Professor  Bowen  was  a  brilliant  radical  in 
his  branch  of  learning.  In  those  days  the  pre- 
vailing school  had  striven  to  make  out  of  this 
branch  a  religion  of  things  as  they  are.  The 
radicals  had  put  all  their  faith  in  science,  declar- 
ing their  readiness  to  follow  wherever  science 
might  lead.  The  fight  between  conservatives 
and  radicals  was  bitter,  and  Professor  Bowen 
and  his  disciple  Jores  kept  it  up  long  after  all 
the  conservatives  had  been  exterminated.  A 
new  battle  was  now  on,  between  the  mechanists 
and  the  humanists,  but  of  this  conflict  Bowen 
and  Jores  refused  to  take  cognizance.  They 
were  still  holding  their  old  entrenchments. 

All  this  should  have  made  Professor  Bowen 
favor  Jores's  candidacy  for  the  headship.  But 
Jores  was  too  obviously  eager  to  have  the  matter 
settled.  He  was  taking  it  too  much  for  granted 
that  his  chief  would  retire.  He  did  not  even 
maintain  a  decent  attitude  of  regret  over  the 


Carnegie  J  187 

breaking  of  the  old  relation  of  master  and  dis- 
ciple. Plainly  Jores  thought  he  could  manage 
the  department  as  well  as  it  had  been  managed. 
Doubts  naturally  arose  in  Bowen's  mind. 

"  Jores  is  a  splendid  fellow,"  Professor  Bowen 
began  to  say  to  his  confidants.  "  But  is  he  the 
man  to  head  a  department  in  a  great  university? 
I  fear  not.  He  is  an  excellent  teacher.  In  his 
thirty  years  of  service  I  have  never  heard  a 
single  word  of  complaint  from  the  students. 
But  he  is  utterly  devoid  of  originality.  Every 
idea  he  has  ever  had  can  be  traced  to  its  source 
in  other  men's  thinking."  "Other  men's?" 
Professor  Bowen  put  it  in  the  plural  out  of  mod- 
esty. All  his  confidants  were  expected  to  know 
very  well  that  Jores  had  traded  exclusively  on 
Bowen's  intellectual  capital. 

"  Vile  old  ingrate !  "  cried  Jores,  when  the 
charge  of  lack  of  originality  filtered  through  to 
him,  as  such  charges  do  filter  through  even  the 
tightest  academic  septa.  And  he  reflected  bit- 
terly upon  the  ignominy  of  the  position  he  had 
occupied.  Had  he  not  fought  fiercely  for 
Bowen's  doctrines  in  the  home  faculty  group 
and  at  association  meetings  abroad?  Had  he 
not  exerted  superhuman  ingenuity  to  give  con- 


1 88  Carnegie  d 

tent  to  Bowen's  dogmas  even  when  he  knew 
them  to  be  empty,  to  make  them  plausible  even 
when  they  were  clearly  wrong?  Genial  critics 
had  called  him  Bowen's  fidus  Achates,  and  brutal 
critics  had  likened  the  pair  of  Hannis  professors 
to  a  bantam  hen  with  a  Shanghai  chick  that  re- 
fuses to  be  manumitted.  The  edge  of  the  com- 
parison was  sharpened  by  the  facts  of  physical 
appearance,  for  Bowen  was  short  and  stocky, 
while  Jores  was  tall,  lank,  and,  as  the  stock 
breeders  say,  "  growthy." 

At  first  relations  between  the  two  professors 
remained  outwardly  cordial,  but  each  seized 
every  opportunity  to  shoot  a  poisoned  shaft  at 
the  other  through  the  fog  of  faculty  gossip. 
Soon  the  students  began  to  suspect  that  there 
was  trouble  in  the  department.  Bowen's  fa- 
vorite pupils  found  themselves  receiving  harsh 
treatment  and  bad  grades  in  Jores's  classes. 
They  complained  to  Bowen,  who  retaliated  by 
failing  two  men  who  were  too  dear  to  the  heart 
of  Jores.  "Either  the  hen  or  the  chick;  never 
both,"  was  a  registration  formula  that  began  to 
circulate  among  the  more  canny  students.  In 
the  end  Bowen  could  not  resist  the  temptation 
to  comment  superciliously  in  his  lectures  on  the 


Cam  eg  led  189 

inelasticity  of  mind  of  a  certain  teacher,  whom 
the  students  found  no  difficulty  in  identifying  as 
Jores.  Jores  made  occasion  to  warn  his  stu- 
dents against  sundry  terrible  fallacies,  exploded 
thirty  years  ago,  but  still  cherished  by  certain 
scholars  who  had  failed  to  keep  abreast  of  the 
times.  The  students  were  delighted.  Men  who 
had  never  before  attended  a  lecture  out  of  their 
regular  course  began  to  flock  to  Bowen's  and 
Jores's  lecture  rooms.  The  faculty  was  scandal- 
ized, but  the  president's  office  remained  deaf  and 
blind.  After  something  of  a  scene  at  Mrs.  Har- 
wood's  dinner  party,  campus  hostesses  found  it 
wise  to  adopt  the  formula,  "  Either  the  hen  or 
the  chick;  never  both."  The  president  not  only 
failed  to  observe  this  rule,  but  at  a  dinner  given 
in  honor  of  Dr.  McAndrew,  a  visiting  professor, 
the  president  actually  seated  the  enemies  side  by 
side. 

The  visiting  professor  was  a  budding  author- 
ity in  the  same  field  in  which  Bowen  and  Jores 
were  fighting.  He  was,  as  he  explained  with 
great  vivacity,  a  champion  of  the  humanistic 
tendency.  Almost  the  two  enemies  nudged  each 
other  in  sympathy.  On  one  thing  they  were  in 
accord :  the  humanistic  tendency  was  just  one  of 


190  Cam  eg  led 

those  pathetic  fads  that  arise  every  generation 
to  suck  the  chaff  of  phrase  makers  away  from  the 
wheat  of  sound  scholarship.  The  visiting  pro- 
fessor babbled  on  and  on,  the  president  smiling 
charitably  upon  him.  Professor  Bowen  made  a 
measured  remark,  calculated  to  prick  some  bub- 
ble of  the  visitor's  invention.  Dr.  McAndrew 
disposed  of  it  with  an  epigram,  quick  and  shal- 
low, that  made  Jores's  comb  swell  with  indig- 
nation. He  struck  heavily  at  the  interloper 
with  an  "  It  is  an  accepted  fact."  But  Dr.  Mc- 
Andrew parried  with  a  lightness  and  flippancy 
that  outraged  all  Professor  Bowen's  sense  of 
scholarly  decency. 

Bowen  and  Jores  were  closer  together  in  spirit 
than  they  had  been  for  two  years.  Almost  with 
alacrity  they  accepted  the  president's  request  to 
go  with  him  to  his  study  to  look  at  the  new 
books. 

"  You  will  be  pleased  with  some  news  I  have 
to  communicate,"  said  the  president.  "  Dr.  Mc- 
Andrew will  be  with  us  next  year.  He  has  ac- 
cepted the  post  that  will  be  vacated  by  Professor 
Bowen's  retirement." 

"But  Mr.  President!"  gasped  Professor 
Bowen.  "  Of  course  I  had  intended  to  retire. 


Carnegie  d  191 

But  hadn't  I  a  right  to  be  consulted?  Besides, 
the  men  on  the  ground  should  have  had  some- 
thing to  say.  We  have  all  favored  Jores  as  my 
successor." 

"  No,"  said  Jores  bitterly.  "  After  my  long 
occupancy  of  a  subordinate  position  I  should  not 
be  well  qualified  for  the  executive  work  of  a 
department  head." 

"  Exactly,"  said  the  president  quickly.  "  No, 
that  isn't  the  reason.  You  see,  my  dear  Jores, 
you  are  an  alumnus  of  the  institution.  And 
while  we  love  our  alumni,  still,  there  is  much 
criticism,  among  our  students  and  in  the  town, 
of  our  tendency  to  inbreed,  as  it  were.  What 
we  need,  everybody  says,  is  a  little  new  blood. 
I'm  sorry,  but  you  understand,  don't  you?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Jores.  "  But  you  will  understand 
that,  in  the  circumstances,  it  is  impossible  for  me 
to  remain." 

"  I  feared  you  might  feel  that  way,"  said  the 
president,  in  a  tone  of  regret.  "  Still,  I'm  not 
sure  it's  not  better  for  your  career  to  go  out  into 
the  world.  They  say  a  rolling  stone  gathers  no 
moss,  but  I  think  there  is  something  to  be  said 
on  the  other  side.  And  if  you  do  make  up  your 
mind  to  seek  opportunity  elsewhere,  it  will  re- 


192  Carnegie d 

lieve  the  university  of  some  embarrassment. 
Professor  McAndrew  made  it  a  condition  of  his 
acceptance  that  we  should  find  a  place  for  his 
friend  Dr.  Nott,  who  collaborated  with  him  on 
his  great  work." 

"  I  see,"  said  Jores,  "  you  have  in  anticipation 
accepted  my  resignation,  and  you  have  in  fact 
filled  my  place.  I  thank  you  for  a  pleasant  eve- 
ning. Good-night." 

"  I  thank  you  too,"  cried  Bowen.  "  And  let 
me  tell  you,  Mr.  President,  that  it's  a  damned 
shame." 

"  You  are  forgetting  yourself,  Professor 
Bowen,"  said  the  president  severely.  "  You  are 
forgetting  where  you  are." 

"  I  don't  care.  It  is  a  damned  shame.  That's 
just  what  it  is." 

A  dozen  student  bands,  prowling  about  at  vari- 
ous hours  of  the  night,  gave  testimony  to  the 
portent — Bowen  and  Jores,  wandering  about  the 
campus  arm  in  arm,  apparently  sentimentalizing 
over  the  landmarks.  Bits  of  their  conversation 
were  overheard;  they  were  recalling  old  memo- 
ries. The  next  morning's  bulletin  reported 
Bowen  Carnegied,  Jores  resigned.  They  are 
living  together  in  a  dim  apartment  in  the  Campus 


Carnegied  193 

Martius,  engaged  in  composing  a  monumental 
work  that  will  sweep  away  the  humanistic  school 
like  feathers  before  an  honest  gale.  They  are 
living  on  a  single  Carnegie  pension,  which  suf- 
fices for  happiness  in  spite  of  high  prices,  under 
the  red  Roman  sun. 


XVI 
Suh-Ho  in  Praise  of  Footbinding 

A  BARBAROUS  custom,  you  call  it.  Bar- 
barous it  cannot  be,  since  it  has  never 
prevailed  among  barbarians  and  only  became 
established  in  the  oldest  and  maturest  civiliza- 
tion in  the  world.  What  you  mean  is  that  foot- 
binding  is  painful,  unnatural.  It  is  indeed  pain- 
ful, exquisitely  painful.  But  one  of  the  measures 
of  civilization  is  pain.  Central  Africa  has  no 
tortures  so  intense  as  those  endured  in  New 
York  or  London.  Footbinding  is  unnatural, 
true;  but  how  much  of  civilization  is  natural? 
When  the  medical  missionaries  first  exhibited  by 
X-ray  photographs  the  inside  of  a  bound  foot  I 
was  shocked,  I  admit.  All  those  little  bones  dis- 
torted, twisted,  run  together  in  spongy  masses — 
ugh!  You  would  be  shocked,  too,  if  you  could 
see  X-ray  photographs  of  the  inside  of  some  of 
your  own  women's  minds.  Soon,  however,  you 
would  recover  from  the  shock  as  I  did.  Civiliza- 
tion cares  nothing  for  the  inside,  so  the  externals 

194 


Suh-Ho  in  Praise  of  Footbinding     195 

are  fair.  My  lady's  lily  foot,  your  lady's  lily 
mind:  these  are  altogether  lovely,  so  far  as  you 
and  I  can  see.  We  shall  leave  it  to  the  specialist 
to  fret  over  what  lies  within. 

A  barbarous  custom?  Let  us  look  to  the  real 
ways  of  the  barbarians  as  they  are  recorded  in 
the  venerable  Ghin  texts,  over  two  thousand 
years  old.  In  those  ancient  days  the  wild  Cho-su 
tribes  roamed  over  the  slopes  of  Altai.  It  is 
written  that  the  Cho-su  thought  it  sacrilege  to 
add  to  the  disabilities  that  God  had  imposed 
upon  the  female  sex.  Therefore  men  and  women 
dressed  alike,  fared  alike,  joined  equally  in  the 
chase,  went  side  by  side  into  battle,  shared 
equally  in  deliberations  and  decisions  even  of 
greatest  import.  And  sometimes  the  wife 
proved  more  skilful  in  the  chase  or  more  valiant 
in  war  than  her  husband,  and  often  and  often 
a  woman's  voice  prevailed  in  the  tribal  councils. 
These  were  true  barbarians. 

Two  thousand  years  ago  your  own  ancestors 
were  barbarians,  very  like  the  Cho-su.  They  too 
were  content  with  the  disabilities  imposed  upon 
women  by  God.  But  little  by  little  you  have  be- 
come more  civilized  and  have  added  steadily  to 
the  disabilities  of  woman.  She  may  no  longer 


196     Suh-Ho  in  Praise  of  Footbinding 

dress  like  you,  exercise  freely  like  you.  You  do 
not  let  her  say  and  hear  many  of  the  things  you 
say  and  hear;  many  things  you  desire  to  know 
you  seek  to  prevent  her  from  knowing.  From 
the  chase,  from  war,  from  tribal  councils,  you 
exclude  her  altogether.  You  do  not  bind  her 
feet;  not  yet.  But  you  are  new  to  civilization 
and  inexpert  in  the  science  of  means  and  ends. 
By  your  clumsy  methods  you  have  succeeded  in 
improving  a  small  fraction  of  your  women  in 
the  degree  appropriate  to  a  high  civilization. 
Bind  their  feet  and  you  will  succeed  with  all  of 
them. 

You  shrink  from  the  cruelty  of  footbinding. 
It  is  not  cruel  since  it  is  for  the  good  of  all, 
women  as  well  as  men.  It  is  painful — for  child 
and  parents.  You  suppose  that  we  in  China  do 
not  love  our  daughters,  but  only  our  sons?  It 
is  not  true.  We  are  a  tender-hearted  people,  and 
after  the  first  chill  of  disappointment  our  hearts 
grow  very  warm  to  the  wee  pale  sprites  that 
have  come  to  share  our  lives.  I  have  a  little 
daughter  of  my  own,  and,  while  I  write  this  at 
my  ease,  somewhere  in  China  my  little  girl  sits 
mournfully  on  a  mat,  gripping  her  knees  with 
her  tiny  hands  as  if  this  would  stop  the  aching. 


Suh-Ho  in  Praise  of  Footbinding     197 

The  twinges  reach  me  here,  through  ten  thou- 
sand miles  of  space.  "  A  barrel  of  tears  for 
each  pair  of  bound  feet,"  says  the  proverb. 
That  is  an  exaggeration.  My  little  girl  wept  at 
first,  bitterly,  but  soon  she  dropped  into  silent 
despair.  It  was  an  unusually  difficult  case  be- 
cause we  began  late.  In  my  family  we  had 
always  begun  to  bind  at  three.  But  my  wife 
would  plead,  "  A  few  days  more  for  the  little 
twinkling  feet."  "  It  will  be  all  the  harder,"  I 
would  grumble.  "  This  hopping  about  makes  the 
feet  big  and  sensitive."  But  she  was  such  a 
merry  bird-like  little  thing,  and  at  our  first  at- 
tempts to  put  on  the  tight  bandages  she  made 
such  piteous  gestures  with  her  chubby  arms,  as 
if  despairing  of  the  world  since  we  could  be  so 
cruel,  that  we  put  it  off  far  too  long.  But  the 
worst  is  over  now.  There  has  been  little  sleep 
under  my  roof  for  the  last  year.  A  barrel  of 
tears?  Yes,  but  they  were  the  mother's. 

Footbinding  is  a  harsher  duty  now  than  it 
was  a  generation  ago,  for  then  it  was  never 
questioned.  But  now  we  have  a  great  number 
of  irresponsible  young  men  of  good  family  who 
have  been  abroad,  or  have  read  foreign  books. 
They  are  like  your  parlor  revolutionaries;  their 


198     Suh-Ho  in  Praise  of  Footbinding 

constant  song  is,  "All  this  must  go;  require- 
ment of  offspring,  reverence  for  parents,  sound 
education,  footbinding,  all  must  go."  No  man 
of  sense  pays  any  attention  to  their  paradoxes. 
Except  when  you  have  lain  awake  night  after 
night  listening  to  a  sobbing  child.  Then  the 
demon  of  doubt  prompts  you  to  ask  yourself, 
"What  if  it  is  unnecessary?  What  if  footbind- 
ing must  go?  "  These  new  ideas  are  but  a  pest 
to  afflicted  parents  in  the  performance  of  their 
difficult  duties.  Footbinding  cannot  go.  "  The 
natural  foot "  that  the  reformers  prate  about, 
what  is  it  but  a  fad?  It  will  work  its  transitory 
mischief  and  disappear. 

Superficial  occidental  writers  assert  that  the 
bound  foot  is  to  be  explained  by  a  perverted 
aesthetic  sense  in  the  male  sex.  This  is  to  miss 
its  deep  spiritual  significance.  The  bound  foot  is 
the  condition  of  a  life  of  dignity  for  man,  of  a 
life  of  contentment  for  woman.  Let  me  make 
this  clear.  I  am  a  Chinese  fairly  typical  of  my 
class.  I  pored  too  much  over  classic  texts  in 
my  youth  and  dimmed  my  eyes,  narrowed  my 
chest,  crooked  my  back.  My  memory  is  not 
strong,  and  in  an  old  civilization  there  is  a  vast 
deal  to  learn  before  you  can  know  anything. 


Suh-Ho  in  Praise  of  Footbinding     199 

Accordingly  among  scholars  I  cut  a  poor  figure. 
I  am  timid,  and  my  voice  plays  me  false  in  gath- 
erings of  men.  But  to  my  footbound  wife,  con- 
fined for  life  to  her  house  except  when  I  bear  her 
in  my  arms  to  her  palanquin,  my  stride  is 
heroic,  my  voice  is  that  of  a  roaring  lion,  my  wis- 
dom is  of  the  sages.  To  her  I  am  the  world;  I 
am  life  itself.  As  you  see  me  I  seem  little  and 
weak,  but  as  my  wife  sees  me  I  am  colossally 
great.  Therefore  life  seems  good  to  me.  I  need 
not  go  forth  to  strive  on  the  battlefield,  nor  to 
seek  even  more  difficult  glory  in  the  arts  of 
peace.  Life  seems  good  to  my  wife  also.  All 
the  petty  services  she  undertakes  for  me  are 
satisfying  to  her  because  they  are  illuminated  by 
my  greatness.  All  her  unending  labors  in  car- 
ing for  my  children  are  agreeable  to  her  because 
these  children  have  the  seed  of  greatness  in 
them. 

Every  man  in  all  the  world  desires  to  be  a 
hero ;  every  woman  in  the  world  desires  to  be  the 
wife  of  a  hero.  In  China,  thanks  to  footbinding, 
these  desires  are  realized.  How  is  it  with  you? 
I  have  often  sought  light  on  this  question.  How 
is  it  possible  for  Americans  and  Europeans  to 
seem  great  men  in  the  eyes  of  their  big,  fine, 


2OO     Suh-Ho  in  Praise  of  Footbinding 

active  wives?  As  I  find  it  the  custom  among 
you  to  discuss  such  subjects  freely,  I  am  wont 
to  put  the  question  directly :  "  Are  you  a  great 
man  in  your  wife's  estimation?"  "Of  course," 
you  reply,  but  your  eyelids  droop  and  I  am  puz- 
zled. If  I  am  questioning  a  lady  I  ask,  "  Does 
your  husband  really  seem  a  great  man  to  you?  " 
"  Of  course,"  she  replies,  but  she  opens  her  eyes 
very  wide  and  I  am  still  more  puzzled.  To  be 
great  men  to  such  wives  as  I  have  seen  in  west- 
ern lands,  that  is  what  you  call  a  big  contract! 
It  would  be  different  if  you  were  all  so  robust 
and  eagle-eyed  as  some  of  the  Rocky  Mountain 
men,  who,  like  the  old  Cho-su,  believe  it  a  sacri- 
lege to  add  to  the  disabilities  imposed  upon  the 
female  sex  by  God.  But  you  men  of  the  cities 
look  to  me  very  much  like  Chinese.  How  are 
you  able  to  play  the  superior  part  proper  to  the 
head  of  a  civilized  household? 

I  surmise  that  you  realize  your  predicament 
and  are  taking  active  measures  to  strengthen 
your  position  against  further  weakening.  You 
are  beginning  to  see  the  necessity  of  standing  for 
the  civilized  ideal  of  woman  affected  with  more 
disabilities  than  God  had  intended.  As  a  repre- 
sentative of  a  much  riper  civilization,  I  may  as- 


Suh-Ho  in  Praise  of  Footbinding     201 

sure  you  with  authority  that  you  are  on  the  right 
track.  I  cannot  give  similarly  unqualified  ap- 
proval to  the  means  you  employ.  You  handicap 
woman  in  professional  life,  discriminate  against 
her  in  industry,  belittle  her  intellectual  achieve- 
ments, or,  if  these  are  too  palpably  solid,  you  cry 
down  the  value  of  her  personality.  So  far,  good. 
But  the  dangerous  barbaric  spirit  of  independ- 
ence among  women  cannot  be  held  in  check 
merely  by  throwing  barriers  across  one  and  an- 
other avenue  of  expression.  What  you  need  for 
the  civilizing  of  women  is  a  simple  and  radical 
strategy.  Bind  their  feet. 


XVII 
The  Chances  of  Being  Married 

BY  common  consent  a  woman's  matrimonial 
chances  are  properly  to  be  treated  humor- 
ously, statistically,  or  "  broadly."  I  am  without 
sense  of  humor,  I  abhor  statistics,  and  I  am  clean- 
minded;  yet  I  feel  there  is  something  I  have  a 
right  to  say  on  the  subject.  Yes,  as  you  infer, 
I  am  a  woman.  And  as  I  am  still  alive,  I  have 
been  compelled  to  take  extreme  precautions  to 
preserve  my  anonymity,  lest  my  friends  pre- 
sume to  a  sympathy  over-personal.  Who  the 
writer  is  no  other  woman  knows,  and  only  one 
man.  And  he  is  a  sociologist,  a  living  machine, 
in  which  mountainous  heaps  of  statistics  have 
been  milled — statistics  of  births  and  deaths,  of 
poverty  and  riches,  of  crime,  insanity  and  sui- 
cide. These  last  are  most  to  his  taste.  He  gloats 
upon  bleak  conclusions,  deductions  of  despair. 
I  call  him  my  friend;  and  when  life  runs  too 
utterly  gray,  I  go  to  him,  as  the  Indian  woman 
bereft  of  her  child  went  to  the  medicine  man  for 
bitter  roots  to  gnaw.  And  that  no  trace  of  my- 

202 


The  Chances  of  Being  Married      203 

self  may  appear  in  this  paper,  I  have  had  him 
revise  and  rearrange,  expand  and  delete,  as 
seemed  good  to  him,  to  the  profit  of  the  logic, 
perhaps,  and  certainly  to  the  prejudice  of  the 
meaning. 

I  am  twenty-nine,  and  I  aver  myself  to  be  of 
sound  body  and  mind.  I  spring  from  one  of  the 
oldest  and  best  of  American  families;  my  for- 
bears, through  several  generations,  have  been 
cultivated  men  and  women,  acquitting  them- 
selves well  and  resolutely  in  the  world.  I  was 
graduated  from  one  of  the  better  women's  col- 
leges, and  trained  myself  for  a  profession, 
through  which  I  win  a  fair  income.  My  pro- 
fessional standing  is  good,  and  in  the  reunions 
of  my  class  I  am  spoken  of  as  a  woman  who  has 
achieved  success.  I  have  been  thrown  into  con- 
tact with  a  great  number  of  men,  young,  middle- 
aged  and  old.  But  my  life  has  yielded  not  one 
single  proposal  of  marriage,  not  one  sentimental 
advance.  No,  this  is  not  quite  the  truth,  and 
why  should  I  not  be  truthful,  under  the  impene- 
trable veil  of  my  anonymity?  There  have  been 
advances,  with  obvious  purpose  of  shallow  ad- 
venture, repelled  at  first  with  burning  indigna- 
tion, later  with  disgust,  finally  only  with  weari- 


204      The  Chances  of  Being  Married 

ness.  Here,  you  suspect,  is  a  clue?  Not  at  all; 
your  own  sisters  and  daughters  could  recount  to 
you  similar  experiences  of  their  own. 

"  She's  probably  very  homely;  she  hasn't  any 
magnetism,"  you  say  with  air  of  finality.  I  shall 
make  no  extravagant  claims  to  personal  charm; 
you  would  not  be  so  vehement  in  my  dispraise 
as  I  myself  often  am.  Still,  I  am  very  like  my 
grandmother;  a  replica,  my  grandfather  used  to 
assert,  when  I  would  invade  the  family  treasure- 
chest  and  dress  myself  in  its  quaint  and  cumber- 
some robes.  "  My  sweetest  Nancy,  come  to  life 
again ! "  But  two  good  men  fought  for  my 
grandmother's  hand,  and  one  was  killed. 
Imagine  how  the  event  glowed,  horribly  and 
entrancingly,  in  the  family  memory.  It  made 
every  boy  born  to  the  house  feel  somewhat  more 
of  a  man;  it  made  every  girl  conscious  of  her- 
self as  worth  a  man's  blood.  I  grew  up  to  that 
consciousness  myself.  But  no  man  has  appeared 
who  would  prick  a  drop  from  his  finger  for  me. 

"  It  is  all  a  matter  of  demand  and  supply," 
says  my  friend  the  sociologist.  "  In  your  grand- 
mother's day  there  were  two  eligible  men  to  one 
eligible  woman.  Hence  the  women  were  all  fair 
and  the  men  were  brave.  To-day  the  proportions 


The  Chances  of  Being  Married      205 

are  reversed.  Therefore  the  men  have  become 
prigs  and  dandies,  or  else  brutes,  and  the  women 
— of  course  they  are  still  fair — "  do  you  catch  his 
complacent  cackle? — "  but  they're  a  drug  on  the 
market.  Content  yourselves  with  the  consola- 
tions of  philosophy,  my  dears." 

Such  a  disproportion  of  the  sexes  seems  some- 
thing improbable,  contrary  to  nature,  does  it  not? 
But  the  sociologist  offers  an  interpretation  which, 
stripped  of  his  tedious  scientific  phraseology, 
runs  about  like  this :  A  change  has  come  over  the 
world,  ominous  for  the  middle  class,  to  which, 
the  sociologist  says,  I  belong  by  virtue  of  the 
fact  that  my  family  has  been  represented  in  the 
pulpit  and  at  the  bar,  in  politics  and  in  business. 
All  girls  born  into  the  middle  class  stay  in  it; 
only  by  desperate  measures  can  a  middle-class 
woman  get  herself  declassee.  Of  the  boys,  one- 
half  succeed  in  keeping  their  footing,  the  other 
half  fail  to  win  position  and  livelihood,  and  so 
fall  out  and  disappear.  The  places  of  the  failures 
are  taken  by  men  rising  from  the  lower  classes, 
but  these  bring  up  their  women  folk  with  them. 
Thus  there  will  be  at  any  time  two  eligible 
middle-class  women  to  one  man.  Says  the  so- 
ciologist, "  Of  the  hundreds  and  thousands  of 


206      The  Chances  of  Being  Married 

blooming  young  women  issuing  from  the  schools 
and  colleges,  each  with  her  face  serenely  mask- 
ing her  dream  of  a  prince  and  domestic  felicity, 
less  than  one-half  will  ever  be  married,  scarcely 
one-half  will  even  be  seriously  wooed."  Inspir- 
ing thought,  fit  for  a  sociologist!  But  will  not 
most  of  these  young  women  remain  single 
through  choice?  Does  not  each  one  you  know 
tell  you  she  prefers  her  "  career  "  to  matrimony? 
To  be  sure;  I  myself  have  told  many  of  you 
this;  and  you,  O  monuments  of  credulity,  have 
believed  it. 

Still,  had  I  not  one  chance  out  of  two?  No. 
According  to  my  authority,  the  scanty  supply  of 
eligible  men  is  subject  to  a  corner  more  effica- 
cious than  any  existing  in  the  business  world. 
The  machinery  by  which  the  corner  is  engined 
is  known  as  "  society."  "  Let  us  analyze  the 
conditions  existing  in  almost  any  middle-class 
circle,"  intones  the  sociologist.  "  Such  a  circle 
may  be  conceived  as  a  primitive  polity,  in  the 
matriarchal  stage  of  development.  At  the  head 
of  it  stands  usually  a  dowager,  whose  word,  for 
some  good  historical  reason,  is  law.  Next  below 
her,  a  small  number  of  women,  minor  dowagers 
and  middle-aged  wives,  making  up,  together  with 


The  Chances  of  Being  Married      207 

the  immediate  members  of  their  families,  '  the  ' 
people.  Below  this,  a  number  of  grades  of  the 
*  possible,'  to  be  admitted  to  social  functions 
when  mass  is  desired,  to  be  excluded  when  the 
requirement  is  quality. 

"  This  organization  has  absolute  power  over 
the  eligible  middle-class  bachelor.  It  can  offer 
him  the  pleasures  and  the  prestige  of  admission 
to  the  most  select  gatherings;  it  can  offer  him 
the  advantages  of  easy  social  intercourse  with 
his  elders,  who  control  the  avenues  to  success  in 
the  professions,  politics  and  business.  What  can 
he  give  in  return  for  such  privileges?  Nothing 
less  than  his  passive  self.  He  must  submit  cheer- 
fully to  being  thrown  accidentally,  with  miracu- 
lous frequency,  into  the  society  of  the  selfsame 
girl,  until  finally,  be  she  beautiful  or  only  piquante 
— there  are  no  other  grades  among  '  the ' 
people — he  succumbs  to  the  forces  of  propin- 
quity and  the  reasonable  expectation  of  every- 
body who  counts.  Thus  does  the  dowager  ma- 
chine impound  the  whole  supply  of  available 
men,  letting  none  of  it  escape  so  long  as  any 
of  the  maidens  in  favor  with  the  machine  re- 
main unmatched.  Was  there  ever  so  ironclad  a 
monopoly  ?  " 


208      The  Chances  of  Being  Married 

I  do  not  accept  the  sociologist's  doctrine  with- 
out qualification;  still  less  do  you.  But  you 
won't  deny  that  there  is  a  grain  in  it.  We  have 
all  seen  the  mechanism  working,  and  working 
with  remarkable  efficiency.  It  has  never  been 
operated  in  my  behalf.  My  parents  were  at  no 
pains  to  win  a  place  in  "  society."  My  father, 
a  country  lawyer,  immersed  himself  in  his  briefs; 
what  time  he  could  afford  for  social  intercourse 
he  devoted  to  the  misfits,  the  poor  young  men, 
working  their  way  through  college  under  handi- 
caps of  ill  health  or  repellent  personality;  the 
reformers,  whose  ethical  zeal  wrought  grievous 
wrong  to  their  economic  status;  the  writers 
whose  books  had  nothing  to  recommend  them 
but  their  literary  merit.  A  queer  lot,  I  can  as- 
sure you,  matrimonially  utterly  ineligible  them- 
selves, and  scarecrows  to  such  eligibles  as  did 
occasionally  slip  through  to  us  in  consequence  of 
defects  in  the  dowager  machine. 

Let  me  not  seem  to  be  bitter  against  the 
dowager  machine.  If  it  robbed  me  of  what  I 
may,  in  my  anonymity,  brazenly  describe  as  my 
rightful  chance  to  satisfy  the  most  fundamental 
of  human  needs,  it  increased  the  chance  of  some 
middle-class  sister  of  mine,  who  would  perhaps 


The  Chances  of  Being  Married      209 

have  relished  "  economic  independence "  and 
professional  success  even  less  than  I  do.  To 
quote  my  sociological  authority  again,  "  The 
machine  affects  the  distribution  of  eligibles,  but 
it  does  not  affect  the  supply  of  them.  To  smash 
the  machine  would  leave  the  problem  of  the 
middle-class  spinster  untouched.  The  solution 
lies  deeper. 

"  The  time  will  come  when  the  women  of  the 
middle  class  will  become  conscious  of  the  fact 
that,  though  unregarded  by  the  men  of  their 
own  class,  to  the  men  of  the  working  class  they 
are  princesses.  It  is  every  man's  secret  desire  to 
marry  above  his  station — cosmic  recognition  of 
the  fact  that  man  tends  to  grow  toward  his  wife's 
level.  You  middle-class  women  can  therefore 
offer  a  most  redoubtable  competition  to  the 
working-class  women,  and  appropriate  to  your- 
selves the  choicest  men  of  the  class.  All  that 
deters  you  is  fear  of  the  talk  of  others  of  your 
class — especially  the  talk  of  the  very  dowagers 
who  are  fencing  you  off  from  men  of  your  own 
kind.  Now,  as  to  your  own  case.  There  is 
Giucciardini " 

I  break  off  the  interview  with  every  visible 
sign  of  outraged  dignity.  Giucciardini  was  origi- 


2io      The  Chances  of  Being  Married 

nally  a  bootblack,  under  a  padrone;  next  he  set 
up  a  chair  of  his  own;  soon  he  branched  out  into 
peanuts  and  fruit;  now  he  owns  the  best  shoe 
store  in  town,  and  is  said  to  have  a  lot  of  stock  in 
the  bank  and  the  wholesale  grocery.  He  is  only 
thirty,  and  there  cannot  be  the  least  doubt  that 
he  will  become  so  rich  that  the  future  Mrs.  Giuc- 
ciardini  will  be  admitted  to  the  town's  elect.  I 
do  not  need  the  sociologist's  myopic  eyes  to  help 
me  perceive  that  Giucciardini  is  handsome; 
Praxiteles  never  modeled  a  more  beautiful  head 
and  torso.  Giucciardini  speaks  purer  English 
than  do  Americans,  and  Tuscan  falls  from  his 
lips  like  music  and  red  wine.  He  has  the  most 
exquisite  manners,  and  he  fits  a  shoe  with  a 
tingling  deftness  that  makes  one  muse.  I  could 
have — pardon  the  expression — Giucciardini. 
How  I  know  this  I  cannot  divulge  even  here. 
I  know  it,  and  so  does  the  sociologist.  But  it 
is  impossible.  I  am  afraid.  If  it  turned  well, 
I  should  still  be  declassee;  if  it  turned  ill — as 
even  equal  matings  do  often  enough — where 
should  I  stand?  It  may  be  that  the  time  will 
come  when  one  woman  of  the  middle  class  will 
accept  the  risk,  then  another,  then  whole  schools 
of  them,  and  that  finally  the  men  of  the  class  will 


The  Chances  of  Being  Married      21 1 

wake  to  find  half  their  sisters  and  cousins  going 
over  to  the  enemy.  But  this  will  not  be  in 
my  period  of  life,  or  at  any  rate  not  in  my  period 
of  youth,  which  comes  to  the  same  thing  in  the 
end. 

When  I  was  a  child  my  father  once  pointed 
out  to  me  a  little  cherry-tree,  the  bark  of 
which  had  been  completely  gnawed  around  by 
a  marauding  rabbit.  "  It  will  bloom  more  beau- 
tifully than  ever,  and  then  it  will  die."  Day 
by  day  I  watched  the  tree.  Its  buds  came 
forth  in  due  season,  and  burst  into  an  efflore- 
scence beyond  my  imaginings.  Then  death  fell 
upon  it,  and  its  petals  shriveled  up  like  tea 
leaves;  its  olive-green  bark  blackened  and 
cracked  in  the  spring  sun.  That  tree  comes 
vividly  to  my  mind  when  I  survey  the  groups 
of  young  women  issuing  from  the  college  gates. 
Did  women  ever  bloom  more  richly?  One-half 
of  them  will  never  marry.  We  come  of  infinitely 
long  lines  of  ancestresses  who  mated  and  bore 
children  and  reared  them  in  care  and  joy.  And 
so  it  is  probably  in  our  blood  that  we  feel  a  bit 
lonely,  at  the  uttermost  edge  of  the  universe, 
the  petals  of  our  lives  shriveling  and  dropping 
one  by  one  into  the  abyss. 


M 


XVIII 
My  Uncle 

Y  uncle  only  by  marriage,  he  is  naturally 
the  less  intelligible  and  the  more  intrigu- 
ing to  me.  I  can't  say  with  assurance  whether  I 
feel  absolutely  at  home  with  him  or  not,  but  I 
think  I  do.  Always  he  has  treated  me  with  the 
utmost  kindness.  That  he  regards  me  exactly 
as  a  nephew  of  the  blood,  he  makes  frequent 
occasion  to  assure  me,  especially  on  his  birthday, 
which  we  all  make  much  of,  since  it  is  about  the 
only  day  when  we  are  chartered  to  sentimental- 
ize quite  shamelessly  over  him.  But  behind  his 
solemn  face  and  straight,  quizzical  gaze,  I  often 
detect  a  lurking  reservation  in  his  judgment  of 
me.  He  thinks,  I  believe,  that  I  have  not  been 
altogether  weaned  of  the  potentates  and  powers 
I  abjured  when  I  crossed  the  water  to  become  a 
member  of  his  family.  Not  that  he  greatly  cares. 
Potentates  and  powers,  emperors,  kings,  princes, 
are  treasured  words  in  his  oratorical  vocabulary 
— he  could  not  very  well  do  without  them.  He 

312 


My  Uncle  213 

is  a  democrat,  and  he  declares  that  in  the  pres- 
ence of  hereditary  majesties,  he  would  most 
resolutely  refuse  to  bend  the  knee.  No  doubt  he 
would,  and  his  instinct  is  correct  aesthetically  as 
well  as  morally.  It's  a  stiff  knee  he  wears,  and 
you  can't  help  smiling  at  the  thought  of  the  two 
long  members  of  his  leg,  tightly  cased  in  striped 
trousers,  arranging  themselves  in  an  obsequious 
right  angle.  Erect  and  stiff,  chest  out,  chin 
whiskers  to  front,  eyes  blinking  independently, 
my  uncle  is  superb.  Or  when  he  raises  his  hat 
with  a  large,  outward  gesture  of  his  arm,  bow- 
ing slightly  from  the  shoulders,  in  affable  salu- 
tation. Or  most  of  all,  when  his  fists  clench,  his 
jaws  display  big  nervous  knots,  his  eyes  gleam 
with  hard  blue  light  in  wrath  over  some  pal- 
pable iniquity,  some  base  cowardice,  some  out- 
rageous act  of  cruelty  or  oppression. 

The  mood  of  rage  is,  to  be  sure,  infrequent 
with  him,  and  he  prides  himself  in  a  self-control 
that  forbids  him  to  act  upon  it.  Therefore,  cer- 
tain cocky  foreign  fellows,  upholders  of  the  duty 
of  fighting  at  the  drop  of  the  hat,  have  charged 
that  our  uncle  would  place  peace  above  honor. 
And  some  of  us,  his  nephews,  are  not  exactly 
easy  under  the  charge.  It  seems  to  reflect  on 


214  My  Uncle 


us.  But  most  of  us  really  know  better.  Our 
uncle  hates  trouble,  and  prefers  argument  to 
fists.  But  nobody  had  better  presume  too  much 
upon  his  distaste  for  violence. 

Pugnacity,  declares  my  uncle,  is  a  form  of 
sentimentalism,  and  all  sentimentalism  is  despi- 
cable. This  is  a  practical  world.  Determine  the 
value  of  what  you  are  after  and  count  the  cost. 
And  wherever  you  can,  reduce  all  items  to 
dollars  and  cents.  "  Aha  !  "  cry  the  hostile  critics 
of  our  house,  "what  a  gross  materialist!  "  And 
some,  even  of  the  nephews  of  the  blood,  repeat 
the  taunt  behind  our  good  uncle's  back.  At  first 
I  too  thought  there  might  be  something  in  it. 
But  I  was  forced  to  a  different  view  by  dint  of 
reflection  on  the  notorious  fact  that  my  uncle  is 
far  readier  in  a  good  cause  to  "  shell  out  "  his 
dollars  and  cents  than  any  of  his  idealistic  critics. 
Reduction  of  a  problem  to  dollars  and  cents,  I 
have  come  to  see,  is  just  his  means  of  arriving  at 
definiteness.  My  uncle  wants  to  do  a  good  busi- 
ness, whether  in  the  gross  joys  of  the  flesh  or  in 
the  benefits  of  salvation.  The  Lord's  cause,  he 
thinks,  ought  to  be  as  solvent  as  the  world's. 
A  naive  view?  To  be  sure,  but  not  one  that 
argues  a  base  soul. 


My  Uncle  215 

This  insistence  of  my  uncle  on  definiteness,  on 
the  financial  solvency  of  every  enterprise,  does 
to  be  sure  get  on  the  nerves  of  many  of  us. 
He'll  drop  into  your  studio,  dispose  his  long, 
bony  body  in  your  most  comfortable  chair  and 
ruminate  for  hours  while  you  work.  You  are 
immersed  in  a  very  significant  problem.  You 
are  at  the  point,  we  will  say,  of  discovering  how 
to  convey  the  sound  of  bells  by  pure  color. 
"  May  I  ask,"  he  says  finally,  "  what  in  thunder 
are  you  trying  to  do?"  You  explain  at  length, 
enthusiastically.  He  hears  you  through,  with 
visible  effort  to  suspend  judgment.  You  pause 
and  scan  his  face  for  a  responsive  glow.  He 
rises,  pats  you  gently  on  the  shoulder.  "  My 
boy,  I  can  put  you  into  a  good  job  down  in  the 
stockyards.  Fine  prospects,  and  a  good  salary 
to  begin  with.  I  ran  in  to  see  your  wife  and 
youngsters  yesterday  and  they're  looking  rather 
peaked.  Not  much  of  a  living  for  them  in  this 
sort  of  thing,  you  know.  Of  course  it  is  mighty 
interesting.  But  don't  you  think  you  could  man- 
age to  do  something  with  it  in  your  free  time?  " 

It  can't  be  denied,  in  the  matter  of  the  family 
relation  my  uncle  is  hopelessly  reactionary.  In 
his  view  almost  the  whole  duty  of  man  is  to 


2i6  My  Uncle 

keep  his  wife  well  housed,  well  dressed,  con- 
tented, and  his  children  plump  and  rosy.  To 
abate  a  tittle  from  this  requirement  my  uncle 
regards  as  pure  embezzlement.  You  try  to  make 
him  see  the  counterclaims  upon  you  of  science, 
literature,  art.  "  Yes,  yes,  those  things  are  all 
very  fine,  but  will  you  rob  your  own  wife  and 
children  for  them?  " 

I  wonder  whether  this  myopia  of  my  uncle  is 
due  to  the  fact  that  he  is  a  confirmed  old  bach- 
elor, and  all  women  and  children  are  to  him 
pure  ideals,  as  much  sweeter  than  all  other  ideals 
as  they  are  more  substantial?  He  poses,  to  be 
sure,  as  a  depreciator  of  woman.  "Just  like  a 
woman,"  "  women's  frivolity,"  "  useless  little 
feminine  trinkets,"  are  phrases  always  on  his 
lips.  But  watch  his  caressing  expression  as  he 
listens  to  the  chatter  of  Cousin  Thisbe,  the  most 
empty-headed  little  creature  who  ever  wore 
glowing  cheeks  and  bright  curls.  Let  anybody 
get  into  trouble  with  his  wife  or  sweetheart,  and 
my  uncle  straightway  takes  up  the  cudgels  for 
the  lady.  The  merits  of  the  case  don't  matter: 
a  lady  is  always  right,  or  if  she  isn't,  it's  a 
mighty  mean  man  who'll  insist  on  it. 

His  nephews  of  the  blood  are  firmly  convinced 


My  Uncle  217 

that  the  reason  why  our  uncle  is  such  a  fool 
about  women  in  general  is  because  he  has  never 
been  in  love  with  any  woman  in  particular. 
Thus  do  members  of  a  family  blind  themselves 
with  dogmas  about  one  another.  I,  being  more 
or  less  of  an  outsider,  can  observe  without  pre- 
conceptions. Now  I  assert,  in  spite  of  his  con- 
sistent pose  of  serene  indifference  to  particular 
charms,  my  uncle's  temperament  is  that  of  a 
man  forever  in  love  with  somebody  or  other. 
He  is  strong,  he  is  simple,  he  is  pure,  and  should 
he  escape  the  dart?  Depend  on  it,  he  has  fallen 
in  love  not  once  or  twice,  but  often  and  often. 
And  the  probabilities  are,  he  has  been  loved, 
though  not  so  often.  And — this  would  be  an 
impious  speculation  if  I  were  nephew  of  the 
blood — how  has  he  behaved,  in  the  rare  latter 
event?  As  a  man  in  the  presence  of  a  miracle 
done  for  his  sole  benefit.  He  has  exulted,  then 
doubted  its  reality,  then  betaken  himself  to  the 
broad  prairie,  where  he  is  most  at  home,  to  cool 
his  blood  in  the  north  wind,  and  restore  him- 
self to  the  serenity,  the  freedom  from  entangle- 
ments, befitting  an  uncle  at  the  head  of  his  tribe. 
This,  you  say,  is  all  conjecture,  deduced  from 
the  behavior  of  those  of  his  nephews  who  most 


2i 8  My  Uncle 

resemble  him?  No.  Do  you  not  recall  that 
early  affair  of  his,  with  the  dark  vivacious  lady 
— Marianne,  I  believe,  was  her  name?  Do  you 
not  recall  a  later  affair  with  a  very  young,  cold 
lady  from  the  land  of  the  snows?  Do  you  not 
recall  his  maturer  devotion  to  the  noble  lady  of 
the  trident,  his  cousin?  And — but  I'll  not  de- 
scend to  idle  gossip. 

As  you  can  see,  I  do  not  wholly  accept  my 
uncle,  as  he  is.  I  wish  he  weren't  so  insistent 
upon  reducing  everything  to  simple,  definite 
terms,  whether  it  will  reduce  to  such  terms  or 
not.  I  wish  he  would  give  more  thought  to  mak- 
ing his  conduct  correct  as  well  as  unimpeacha- 
ble. I'm  for  him  when  his  inferiors  laugh  at 
him,  but  I  wish  he  would  manage  to  thwart 
their  malicious  desire  to  laugh.  I  wish  he  were 
less  disposed  to  scoff  gently  at  my  attempts  to 
direct  his  education.  Just  the  same,  he  is  the 
biggest,  kindliest,  most  honest  and  honorable 
tribal  head  that  ever  lived.  And  you  won't  find 
a  trace  of  these  reservations  in  the  enthusiasm 
with  which  I  shall  wish  him  many  thousands  of 
happy  returns,  next  Fourth  of  July. 


XIX 

The  Fear  of  God 

THAT  is  what  Mr.  Harold  Cranfield  says 
is   pressing  upon   him.      I   should   myself 
call  it  something  else.     Perhaps  social-political 
jimjams  would  be  as  good  as  any  other  name 
for  it. 

Mr.  Cranfield  is  one  of  those  prosperous 
American  business  men  who  up  to  a  year  ago 
believed  unshakably  that  the  existing  economic 
and  social  system  was  just  as  solid  and  enduring 
as  the  granite  hills.  Every  man  for  himself;  but 
every  man,  in  seeking  his  own  selfish  good,  des- 
tined by  unerring  economic  law  to  serve  to  the 
utmost  the  interests  of  his  fellow  man :  that  was 
the  essence  of  the  present  system  as  he  ex- 
pounded it.  The  true  nature  of  the  system  was 
first  revealed  to  Mr.  Cranfield  forty  years  ago, 
when  he  was  a  student  at  Yale.  Laid  up  in  his 
room  by  a  broken  rib — so  he  tells  the  story — 
he  was  driven  by  boredom  to  turn  the  pages  of 
a  volume  of  Adam  Smith,  foisted  upon  him  by  a 

219 


22O  The  Fear  of  God 

professorial  friend  who  had  shrewdly  guessed 
that  the  student's  mind  might  be  receptive  to 
knowledge  when  his  body  was  broken :  it  never 
was  when  he  could  be  up  and  about.  And  then 
his  eyes  fell  upon  the  demonstration  of  the  true 
place  of  individual  selfishness  in  the  Divine 
scheme  of  the  world.  It  took  hold  of  him  with 
the  force  of  evidence,  and  from  that  day  to  about 
a  year  ago  he  never  doubted  it,  nor  did  he  doubt 
that  it  could  be  made  equally  clear  to  all  men 
who  were  endowed  with  the  light  of  reason. 
That  meant  at  least  enough  men  to  control  the 
political  destinies  of  the  world. 

Provided  that  men  generally  received  en- 
lightenment, Mr.  Cranfield  used  to  argue,  there 
could  be  no  question  whatever  about  the  stabil- 
ity of  the  present  order,  founded  as  it  was  on 
hard  fact  and  right  reason.  Therefore  Mr.  Cran- 
field was  a  liberal.  He  stood  for  the  utmost 
freedom  of  thought  and  speech  and  of  the  press, 
that  the  truth  might  have  an  open  field  in  which 
to  meet  and  crack  the  bones  of  error.  To  be 
sure,  there  were  socialists  and  anarchists  at  large 
who  challenged  everything,  and  there  were  so- 
cial reformers  besides  who  challenged  specific 
parts  of  the  existing  system.  Sentimentalists, 


The  Fear  of  God  221 

all  of  them;  or  cheap  fellows  who  had  to  win 
personal  notoriety,  if  by  no  other  method,  then 
by  standing  on  a  street  corner  and  bawling  out 
that  two  and  two  make  four  only  because  the 
capitalist  exploiters  will  have  it  so.  Can't  you 
hear  him  growing  boisterously  witty  over  them, 
from  his  seat  of  authority  at  the  head  of  his  din- 
ner table?  Picture  him,  erect,  robust,  his  mas- 
sive head  crowned  with  gray  hair,  rebellious  to 
the  smoothing  brush,  his  clear  eyes  beaming 
with  good  nature,  the  healthy  red  of  his  cheeks 
glowing  through  the  gray  of  a  well-clipped 
beard.  He  was  magnificent,  in  his  good  spirits, 
and  so  was  his  table,  with  its  gorgeous  china 
and  chastely  designed  silver,  its  ranks  of  glasses 
aspiring  to  good  things  at  the  hands  of  a  butler 
trained  to  distribute  his  gifts  as  unobtrusively 
as  the  fairies  move  when  they  distribute  dew 
among  the  eager  flowers.  Opposite  sat  his  wife, 
more  beautiful  in  late  middle  age  than  any  girl, 
with  eyes  brighter  than  the  diamonds  glistening 
upon  her  breast.  There  were  two  white-shoul- 
dered daughters,  one  just  come  out,  and  all  de- 
mure glances,  the  other  a  little  more  mature, 
discreetly  conscious  of  the  fact  that  a  king  had 
spoken-of  her  as  that  impossibly  beautiful  Amer- 


222  The  Fear  of  God 

ican  girl.  It  was  not  a  very  great  king,  to  be 
sure,  but  a  great  connoisseur.  Other  ladies 
were  there  too,  beautiful,  of  course,  and  men, 
very  correct  and  handsome,  real  financial  leaders 
and  amateurs  of  art  and  politics.  And  very 
likely — so  catholic  were  Mr.  Cranfield's  tastes — 
there  was  also  a  place  for  some  member  of  the 
intellectual  proletariat,  a  little  uncertain  of  the 
ceremonial  of  the  courses  and  often  apparently 
sunk  in  deep  thought  when  in  fact  only  waiting 
for  a  cue.  Woe  to  him  if  the  lady  on  his  right, 
addict  of  subtle  malice,  gave  him  the  wrong  cue. 
All  that  was  a  year  ago,  but  now  a  vast  change 
has  come  over  Mr.  Cranfield.  The  buoyant  op- 
timism is  gone.  Bolshevism,  hideous  conception, 
has  got  into  Mr.  Cranfield's  mind,  and  crashes 
about  destructively  like  a  gun  carriage  broken 
loose  on  the  deck  of  a  foundering  ship.  In  dark 
tenements  of  New  York  you  may  find  pale  men 
and  hectic  cheeked  women  poring  over  type- 
written bulletins  which  report  that  things  are 
moving  fast  in  Germany,  France,  Italy,  Eng- 
land :  that  social  discontent  is  gathering  head 
in  Chicago,  St.  Louis,  Amarillo  and  Tucson. 
They  read,  and  believe,  sure  that  if  they  can  live 
a  little  longer,  they  will  see  with  their  own  eyes 


The  Fear  of  God  223 

the  Great  Revolution,  which  shall  make  all 
things  over,  descending  from  Heaven  in  a  char- 
iot of  fire.  They  believe,  but  no  more  vividly 
than  Mr.  Cranfield  fears.  To  him  there  is  Bol- 
shevism in  every  bush,  and  his  knees  knock  to- 
gether as  he  passes  by. 

"  The  world  is  going  to  perdition,"  he  groans. 
"  Did  you  see  that  account  of  how  the  Bolshe- 
vists have  got  hold  of  Mexico?  No,  sir:  you're 
wrong:  it's  not  merely  an  expansionist  yarn  to 
work  up  sentiment  for  an  invasion:  it's  true, 
and  the  sooner  we  send  our  armies  down  there 
to  clean  out  Carranza  and  his  whole  gang,  the 
better.  Have  you  heard  how  Trotzky  has  man- 
aged to  send  four  hundred  million  rubles  into 
our  own  country,  for  propaganda?  Paper 
rubles?  No,  sir:  gold,  good  red  Russian  gold: 
I  got  it  from  a  secret  service  agent  who  has 
seen  it.  The  sooner  we  stop  monkeying  with 
those  propagandists,  the  better.  Shoot  them : 
or  better,  hang  them  in  Union  Square,  a  dozen 
of  them,  every  day.  That  will  teach  the  riff- 
raff what's  what." 

Propaganda:  that  is  the  great  menace  of  the 
age  as  Mr.  Cranfield  sees  it.  It  is  an  infection, 
that  spreads  faster  and  farther  than  Spanish  in- 


224  The  Fear  of  God 

fluenza.  Our  only  hope  is  to  localize  the  infec- 
tion, destroy  its  foci.  A  whiff  of  grape  shot, 
that  is  what  is  needed.  Jails  and  machine  guns, 
there  lies  our  only  hope.  And  suppose  they  are 
taken  over  by  the  enemy?  God  help  us  then, 
but  we  will  fight,  fight  till  the  last  man  of  us  is 
killed.  Then  the  Bolsheviki  may  have  this 
world,  and  fight  among  themselves  till  the  food 
gives  out  and  they  all  starve  to  death. 

"  I  don't  think  it's  very  nice  of  you,  Papa,  to 
talk  about  dying  to  the  last  man  and  leaving  the 
world  to  the  Bolsheviki.  What  will  become  of 
us  women?"  Thus  speaks  Alice,  debutante 
daughter  a  year  ago,  but  now  a  very  self-pos- 
sessed, self-determined  young  woman.  She  has 
been  engaged  in  war-work.  It  was  her  job  to 
meet  incoming  boats  with  an  ambulance  and 
carry  the  sick  and  wounded  to  the  hospitals. 
She  did  it  with  spirit  and  nerve,  as  I  can  testify, 
having  all  but  come  to  my  end  under  the  wheels 
of  her  drab  colored  government  car,  crashing 
through  the  crowds  as  if  accidents  didn't  mat- 
ter, since  an  ambulance  was  at  hand.  She  gave 
me  a  nonchalant  nod  of  recognition  as  I  leapt 
for  safety  behind  an  L  post.  She  was  exquisite 
in  her  khaki  uniform,  with  scarce  a  yellow  curl 


The  Fear  of  God  22$ 

escaping  the  prison  of  her  little  cap.  Glowing 
cheeks,  shining  eyes:  how  must  she  have  ap- 
peared to  her  wounded  charges?  "They  all 
adore  me,  and  I  believe  a  lot  of  them  are  Bol- 
sheviki  at  heart."  Perhaps  they  are,  but  if  Bol- 
sheviki  are  human  beings,  of  course  they  adore 
Alice. 

"What  will  become  of  you  women?"  Mr. 
Cranfield  repeats  slowly.  "  That  is  why  we  have 
got  to  fight." 

"  Until  you  are  all  exterminated,"  says  Alice 
remorselessly.  "And  then?" 

"And  then?  It  drives  me  crazy  to  think  of 
it." 

"  Well,  Papa,  I  think  we  women  will  manage 
to  take  care  of  ourselves,  whatever  happens." 

"  Take  care  of  yourselves ! "  exclaims  Mr. 
Cranfield  angrily.  "  You  foolish  child,  you  don't 
know  what  you  are  talking  about."  It  is  an 
especially  sore  point  with  him,  that  neither 
his  wife  nor  his  daughters  will  share  his 
fears. 

"  Girls  are  queer  creatures,"  he  philosophized, 
after  we  had  retired  to  his  cozy  study  to  smoke 
and  argue  out  the  problem  of  Bolshevism. 
"  Now  look  at  that  girl.  Born  to  luxury,  bred 


226  The  Fear  of  God 

in  luxury,  she'd  be  in  despair  if  she  couldn't  have 
everything  she  wants.  When  she  marries,  fifty 
thousand  a  year  will  be  the  least  she  can  live  on. 
And  if  her  husband  can't  make  it  I  suppose 
she'll  come  home.  But  tell  her  that  when  the 
Bolsheviki  come  she'll  be  glad  to  share  a  crust 
out  of  a  dirty  pocket  or  eat  stew  out  of  a  com- 
mon dish  with  a  crew  of  riff-raff,  it  doesn't 
worry  her  a  bit.  It  will  be  more  interesting,  she 
says.  We  have  a  terribly  dull  time,  she  says, 
seeing  nobody  but  stiff  bourgeoisie.  The  pro- 
letariat are  much  more  intelligent.  She  learned 
that  in  war-work." 

'  That  sounds  to  me  as  if  Bolshevism  had 
taken  root  in  your  own  house,"  I  ventured. 

"  Maybe  it  has.  Of  course  I  don't  take  her 
too  seriously.  But  that's  just  the  danger  with 
Bolshevism.  It  gets  hold  of  the  rising  genera- 
tion. It's  taking  root  everywhere.  What  has 
come  over  the  world,  anyhow?  Labor  used  to 
be  satisfied  with  what  it  got,  even  when  it  got 
little." 

"Oh,  was  it?"  I  demanded.  "You  have  for- 
gotten the  inscription  on  this  rug."  It  was  a 
thick-napped  Syrian  rug  of  wine-colored  ground, 
bordered  with  an  ominous  inscription  in  broad 


The  Fear  of  God  227 

letters  of  gold.  "  Think  not  that  palace  walls 
can  shield  thee  from  the  sword  of  wrath  of  a 
just  God."  So  Dr.  Leib  had  interpreted  it,  and 
in  the  old,  secure  days  we  used  to  make  merry 
over  this  richly  glowing  curse  wrought  by  an 
unknown  sweated  worker  of  the  Lebanon  against 
the  mighty  who  should  tread  upon  the  fruits  of 
his  labor. 

"  There  has  always  been  some  discontent," 
Mr.  Cranfield  admitted.  "  But  it  never  grew 
into  a  system  till  now.  It  never  was  a  real 
menace.  We  were  sleeping.  We  should  have 
stopped  it  at  the  beginning." 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  as  you  used  to  say  there  are 
reforms  long  overdue,  and  a  need  of  more  thor- 
oughgoing education " 

"  Reforms !  Education !  Bah !  Haven't  we 
reformed  for  generations,  and  have  we  any  se- 
curity to-day  against  wholesale  robbery  and  uni- 
versal murder?  Guns  and  jails,  those  are  what 
we  need.  And  strong  men  at  the  head  of  affairs 
who  won't  temporize." 

"  And  none  of  our  old  liberal  talk  of  the  har- 
mony of  class  interests,"  I  suggested. 

"  No,  none  of  that,"  Mr.  Cranfield  assented 
vigorously.  "  Harmony  of  interest,  what  rot ! 


228  The  Fear  of  God 

I've  got  what  I've  got,  and  they  want  it.  Well, 
we'll  fight,  that's  all." 

"  No  more  pretense  of  democracy,  of  equality 
of  worth  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,"  I  added. 
"  It  just  leads  to  fraternizing." 

"  That's  exactly  it.  Look  at  Alice,  now.  You 
can't  take  her  too  seriously,  of  course;  but  it's 
weakening  to  have  people  express  such  views, 
even  in  fun.  All  of  us  who  have  anything  have 
just  got  to  stand  together,  and  no  quarter." 

That  is  where  Mr.  Cranfield,  ancient  liberal 
of  the  prosperous  class,  now  takes  his  stand. 
Ghost  ridden,  you  say?  Yes;  but  the  fear  of 
ghosts  is  just  as  real  as  any  other.  And  just  as 
infectious. 


XX 

Evalina 

THEY  were  celebrating  the  decennial  of 
their  graduation  from  the  engineering 
college.  Technically  I  did  not  belong  there, 
but  the  committee  had  dug  out  the  fact  that 
I  had  once  been  made  an  honorary  member  of 
the  class,  and  accordingly  voted  to  overlook  my 
disqualifications  and  invited  me  to  the  banquet. 
Those  disqualifications  were  grave,  for  the  ban- 
quet was  to  be  of  the  usual  college  reunion  type, 
challenging  a  more  persevering  digestion  than 
mine,  and  the  talk  was  to  be  of  cantilevers  and 
turbines  of  types  quite  transcending  my  imagi- 
nation. But  there  is  always  food  for  reflection 
in  a  reunion  of  collegians  ten  years  out  in  the 
world.  They  have  changed  so  unforeseeably, 
or  have  so  unforeseeably  remained  the  same. 
Accordingly  I  accepted  the  invitation,  and,  as 
I  had  anticipated,  had  a  bad  time  with  the  food 
and  the  conversation,  but  much  opportunity  for 
sage  reflection. — Yes,  the  prevailing  effect  o£ 

229 


230  Evalina 

practical  life  is  depressing.  These  men,  mostly 
robust  and  of  prosperous  appearance,  sounded 
rather  hollow  as  they  thumped  one  another  in 
the  exchange  of  technical  narrative  or  untech- 
nical  anecdote.  Ten  years  ago  spirits  mounted 
higher.  So  everybody  seemed  to  recognize, 
disconsolately,  until  the  conversation  gave  way 
to  the  college  songs.  At  least  they  could  roar 
still. 

"  Ten  years  have  gone  round  and  I've  not  got 

a  dollar 

Evalina    still    waits    in    that    green    grassy 
hollow—  " 

They  sang  it  with  great  gusto,  as  men  of  whom 
it  couldn't  be  true.  Especially  boisterous  was 
the  singing  of  the  man  on  my  right,  a  spare, 
brisk  man,  looking  rather  younger  than  the  rest, 
rather  more  conspicuously  well-dressed.  On 
close  inspection  there  was  something  artificial 
about  his  youth,  and  his  whole  make-up,  you 
concluded,  was  not  chic  after  all,  but  just  on  the 
margin  of  the  flashy.  I  racked  my  memory  for 
the  details  of  his  college  life.  I  could  not  re- 
member anything  definite,  except  that  I  used 
to  encounter  him  rather  frequently  around  the 
Arts  College,  in  the  company  of  a  very  attrac- 


Evalina  231 

tive  and  intelligent  girl  student.  Oh  yes,  an 
engagement  had  been  announced  at  Commence- 
ment time,  I  recalled.  But  the  man  beside  me 
wore  no  ring. 

"Where  is  Evalina?"  I  demanded,  as  the 
singing  subsided. 

He  started  slightly.  "  Why,  in  the  green 
grassy  hollow,  of  course."  He  laughed  mechan- 
ically. "  That  song  is  about  me,  you  under- 
stand." Then  in  a  lower  voice,  "  But  nobody 
knows  it  except  you.  Here's  my  card.  Presi- 
dent of  the  Antares  Mining  Corporation. 
Sounds  fine,  doesn't  it?" 

"  What  do  you  mine?  "  I  asked. 

"  Hopes.  Fine  big  deposit  of  them,  under- 
ground. My  capital  is  half  a  million  hopes. 
My  salary  as  president,  twenty  thousand  hopes." 

"  Fine !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  There  is  nothing 
better  than  hope.  But  Evalina;  is  she  able  to 
live  on  them?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you  about  her.  Say,  this  is  a  good 
time  to  slip  out.  They're  going  to  have  speeches. 
You  don't  care  to  stay?" 

"  No,  I'd  rather  hear  about  Evalina  and  all 
those  hopes." 

We  made  our  escape  and  crossed  the  campus, 


232  Evalina 

picking  our  way  in  the  semi-darkness  among 
groups  of  boys  and  girls,  the  current  crop  of 
collegians,  chattering  and  laughing  with  an  en- 
thusiasm that  had  none  of  the  forced  quality  of 
the  banqueting  table  we  had  just  left.  We 
found  a  bench  at  the  edge  of  the  river,  and 
rested  our  eyes  for  a  moment  on  the  dark  surface 
gridironed  with  bright  stripes  from  the  boat- 
house  on  the  other  side. 

"Have  a  cigar?"  I  asked. 

"  No,  thank  you.  I  don't  smoke.  Against  my 
principles.  I'm  a  talking  man,  by  principle.  It's 
this  way:  you  and  I  meet;  you  want  to  tell  me 
your  tale  and  I  want  to  tell  you  mine.  You 
smoke  and  I  don't;  so  I  win.  You  may  get  the 
start  on  me,  but  then  you  light  up  and  I  take 
the  conversation  away  from  you.  You  may  get 
in  again,  but  soon  you'll  have  to  attend  to  your 
light,  and  there  I  am,  rattling  away,  forty  miles 
an  hour." 

"  All  right.  I'll  light  up  and  keep  out  of  the 
competition.  But  what's  the  good  of  it?  You 
want  the  conversation.  Just  why  do  you  want 
it?" 

"Why  do  I  want  it?  Well,  that's  me.  I 
guess  that's  all  the  explanation  there  is.  I  al- 


Evalina  233 

ways  was  that  way.  Talk,  talk,  talk.  If  I  could 
keep  my  mouth  closed  once  in  a  while  I  might 
have  a  real  job,  like  our  toastmaster.  Remem- 
ber him?  Couldn't  make  a  speech;  can't  make 
one  yet.  Draws  $50,000  a  year.  Real  money." 

"  But  men  do  talk  themselves  into  money,"  I 
remonstrated.  "  Sometimes.  Let's  not  argue 
that,  just  now.  You  were  going  to  tell  me  about 
Evalina." 

"You  knew  her?  Well,  she's  just  like  that, 
still.  I  was  there,  last  week.  She  still  wears 
brown  dresses  because  I  liked  them,  does  her 
hair  in  a  Psyche  knot,  because  I  liked  it.  She 
laughs  in  the  same  way,  has  the  same  little 
warbling  note — Lord,  that  used  to  catch  hold 
of  me!" 

"  Used  to !  "  I  repeated  severely. 

"  Well,  it  does  so  yet.  But  you  know  how  it 
is.  The  women  you  see  in  the  city  are  chang- 
ing all  the  time.  They're  living  up  to  a  new 
level,  every  year.  Evalina,  as  you  call  her,  is 
still  living  to  the  level  of  1908.  That's  the  way 
they  are,  in  the  villages.  In  dead  villages  any- 
way, like  Midvale." 

"As  I  recall  the  Evalina  of  1908,  she'd  be 
worth  perpetuating,"  I  reflected. 


234  Eivalina 

"  Sure.  She  is  worth  it.  But  you  know,  it 
ages  you,  awfully,  to  live  on  the  same  level,  year 
after  year.  Lines  about  the  eyes,  now;  you 
can't  prevent  them.  You  can't  keep  out  a  few 
gray  hairs.  Well,  they  make  no  difference  if 
you  are  living  on  the  right  level.  Nothing 
younger  than  a  woman  of  thirty  if  she's  living 
up  to  a  woman  of  thirty.  But  if  she's  living 
down  to  the  level  of  twenty,  she  doesn't  seem 
so  young.  You  get  me?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  not  easily  suppressing  my 
indignation.  "  You  are  more  analytical  than 
romantic." 

"Analytical?  That's  just  what  I  am.  That's 
why  I've  not  got  a  dollar." 

"  Reason  Number  Two,"  I  remarked.  "  A 
little  while  ago,  you  said  it  was  talk  that  did  it. 
Next  you  will  say  it  was  drink." 

"  No,  not  me.  I  never  did  drink  anything  but 
water.  Drank  it  and  boosted  it  as  if  I  had  it 
cornered  and  was  selling  it  for  good  money.  A 
man  like  that  never  can  get  anywhere,  can  he?  " 

"  Reason  Number  Three.  But  I'd  like  to  hear 
the  real  reason." 

"The  real  reason?  Oh  yes,  I  know  it  well 
enough.  I'm  analytical,  you  see.  Do  you  re- 


Evalina  235 

member  my  record  in  your  class?  Well,  I  went 
strong  the  first  four  weeks.  You  thought  I  was 
a  prize.  And  then  I  fizzled.  That  is  always 
the  way  with  me.  I  get  a  new  job,  I'm  all  fire 
and  breeze  and  the  boss  thinks,  now  we  can  go 
ahead  full  steam.  And  we  do,  for  a  little  while, 
and  then  I  fizzle" 

"How  about  the  Antares  Corporation?"  I 
asked. 

"  Oh,  I  started  that  gloriously.  Got  a  quarter 
of  the  stock  subscribed  in  a  week  and  not  a 
dollar  since." 

"  Is  it  a  real  project?" 

"  Yes.  Big  money  in  it.  At  least  I  thought 
so  four  weeks  ago.  But  it's  stale  now.  I  want 
to  go  on  to  something  else." 

"  In  that  case  I  prophesy  that  Evalina  will 
wait  another  ten  years." 

"  You're  safe  there.  I  know  it,  and  she  knows 
it.  But  she  won't  admit  it.  She's  still  waiting 
for  me  to  buck  up  and  make  things  go,  just 
for  once." 

"  And  don't  you  think  you'd  better  do  it?  "  I 
spoke  perhaps  with  undue  emphasis. 

"You're  getting  peeved  with  me?"  He 
laughed  joylessly.  "  You  think  that  if  a  man 


236  Evalina 

wants  to  amount  to  something,  he  can?  If  you 
do,  you're  dead  wrong.  It  isn't  in  me.  I  tell 
you,  it  isn't  in  me.  You've  never  seen  my 
father?  If  you  had,  you'd  understand.  All  his 
life  he  was  just  about  to  make  things  go.  The 
number  of  big  things  he  nearly  did,  it's  aston- 
ishing. But  he's  all  talk,  just  like  me." 

"  Pardon  me,"  I  said.  "  I'm  old-fashioned, 
and  I'm  getting  rather  more  disagreeable  im- 
pressions than  I  can  stand.  You  have  spoken 
contemptuously  of  yourself;  that  is  amusing, 
but  I  don't  like  it.  You  have  spoken  slightingly 
of  Evalina,  whom  I  remember  as  an  altogether 
admirable  person.  And  now  you  are  maligning 
your  father." 

"Maligning?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Positively, 
there  isn't  a  living  man  who  suits  me  so  well 
for  company  as  my  father.  We  go  fishing  to- 
gether, and  talk  and  talk,  till  the  sun  goes  down. 
We  don't  catch  any  fish,  but,  Lord,  the  fish  we 
nearly  catch!  We  know  each  other  and  we 
don't  hold  it  up  against  each  other.  I  under- 
stand why  my  father  never  amounted  to  any- 
thing and  he  understands  why  I  don't.  But 
everybody  else  has  expected  something  more 
of  us.  That's  the  way  with  you,  right  now. 


Evalina  237 

You'd  like  to  take  me  by  the  ears  and  hold  me 
up  against  a  job  until  I  froze  to  it.  And  what 
I  feel  is,  you  are  spoiling  a  pleasant  evening  for 
me." 

"  God  forbid  I  should  spoil  it,"  I  replied  in- 
dignantly. "  But  I'm  thinking  of  Evalina,  and 
the  ten  years  she's  wasted,  waiting  for  you  to 
go  from  talk  to  solid  work." 

"  Don't  I  think  of  that,  too?  Let  me  tell  you, 
there  are  times  I  could  hate  Evalina.  She's  al- 
ways expecting,  expecting.  For  ten  years,  now, 
I've  never  had  an  easy  moment.  I  say  to  my- 
self, I've  got  to  succeed  this  time,  Evalina  is 
expecting  it,  but  I  know  I  won't  succeed.  Talk 
about  slavery ;  that  is  nothing  to  what  I've  gone 
through  and  shall  have  to  go  through  until  I'm 
so  old  nobody  can  expect  anything  of  me." 

"  If  that  is  the  way  you  feel,  don't  you  think 
you  should  have  released  her  long  ago?" 

"Released?"  He  laughed  sadly.  "  Who  does 
the  releasing,  slave  or  master?  Let  me  tell  you, 
Evalina  knows  just  exactly  what  I  am.  Of 
course  she  didn't  know  at  first.  I  went  strong 
and  she'd  made  up  her  mind  to  take  me  before 
she  saw  me  fizzle.  Lord,  I  was  surprised,  to  get 
so  far.  But  I  thought,  she'd  have  plenty  of  time 


238  Evalina 

to  back  out.  She  had,  but  she  wouldn't  back 
out,  and  she  won't.  She  knew  she  had  made  a 
mistake,  but  she  made  it  her  pride  to  put  in  the 
'  for  better  or  for  worse  '  where  it  didn't  be- 
long." 

"  At  least,"  I  suggested,  "  you  could  have  per- 
suaded her  to  take  up  some  work  for  herself. 
There  certainly  was  no  reason  why  she  should 
remain  in  Midvale  waiting  for  you  when  you 
were  never  going  to  materialize." 

"  You  think  I  didn't  try  to  get  her  out  of 
there?  She  wouldn't  stir.  She  knew  she  had 
ten  times  the  brains  I  had,  and  if  she  gave  her- 
self a  chance  to  develop,  I  would  be  quite  out 
of  the  question.  She  didn't  dare;  it  would  cut 
across  that  for  better  or  for  worse  idea  of  hers. 
And  besides,  if  she  got  into  some  kind  of  work 
that  suited  her,  or  fell  in  love  with  another  man, 
it  would  take  the  net  of  her  expectations  off  me. 
I  wouldn't  have  to  amount  to  anything.  I  could 
be  free  to  take  a  job  of  looking  after  the  oil  cups 
and  tightening  up  nuts,  till  I  got  a  few  dollars 
ahead.  Then  I  could  run  back  to  the  old  town 
and  go  fishing  with  my  father.  There  are  plenty 
of  jobs  like  that.  They  don't  lead  you  anywhere 
but  I  don't  want  to  be  led  anywhere.  They  are 


Evalina  239 

good  enough  for  a  man  like  me,  but  I  can't  take 
them,  because  of  Evalina,  waiting,  waiting." 

"  It  seems  to  me  there  is  just  one  thing  for 
you  to  do,"  I  said  dogmatically.  "  Go  down  to 
Midvale  and  put  your  case  before  Evalina  just 
as  frankly  as  you  have  put  it  before  me." 

"  That  is  just  what  I  tried  to  do,  a  week  ago. 
I  went  down  there  intending  to  tell  her  that  all 
this  faithful  waiting  is  romantic  foolishness.  I 
was  going  to  tell  her  that  it's  positively  im- 
moral for  a  woman  to  keep  herself  tied  up  with 
a  man  who  can't  amount  to  anything.  Well,  I 
wired  her  when  I  was  coming,  and  there  she 
was  at  the  station,  just  as  girlish  and  sweet  as 
ten  years  ago,  her  eyes  just  as  serene  and  trust- 
ful, and  we  walked  home  by  the  path  through 
the  hollow.  I  climbed  the  cliffs  to  pluck  colum- 
bine out  of  the  sunshine,  all  as  bright  as  if  no 
ten  years  had  gone,  and  we  threw  wild  rose 
petals  above  the  tiny  cascade  at  the  foot  of  the 
hollow  and  watched  them  come  down  like  a 
rainbow.  I  fizzled.  Before  I  left  I  had  unfolded 
at  least  ten  projects,  all  sure  to  be  big  money, 
distinction  and  independence." 

"  Humph !  "  I  grunted. 

"  And  say !  "  he  exclaimed  eagerly.     "  There 


240  Evalina 

is  just  one  thing  that  may  pan  out.  You  know 
why  I  came  to  this  class  reunion?  That  fat  fel- 
low, our  toastmaster,  needs  a  manager  for  his 
western  branch.  I  found  that  out  before  I  came 
east.  I've  had  two  talks  with  him,  and  I've 
actually  got  the  job.  But  I  had  to  go  down  on 
my  knees  for  it." 

"  I  won't  expect  you  to  hold  that  job,  but  if 
you  do,  it  would  interest  me  to  know  about  it." 

"  Of  course  you'll  know  about  it.  Do  you 
think  I'm  the  man  to  hide  a  light  like  that  under 
a  bushel?" 

That  was  a  year  ago.  I  have  heard  nothing 
from  him  since.  But  Evalina's  address  remains 
Midvale  in  the  last  Directory,  just  out. 


XXI 
Old  Scores 

THERE  was  perhaps  nothing  mysterious 
about  the  turn  of  chance  that  brought  me 
into  renewed  relations  with  Mr.  John  Auch- 
muty.  Mr.  Auchmuty  is  one  of  the  few  remain- 
ing staunch  Victorian  Liberals.  For  nearly  half 
a  century  he  has  fought  valiantly  for  every  good 
cause,  domestic  or  international.  Free  trade, 
free  competition,  free  speech,  free  press  are 
among  his  dearest  gods,  and  beyond  all,  what 
used  to  be  known  as  plain  international  justice, 
but  is  now  denominated  national  self-determina- 
tion. And  so  when  the  Independence  Mission 
of  the  Aromunes  and  Kutzo-Vlachs  decided  to 
form  an  American  committee  in  support  of  their 
national  aspirations,  it  was  entirely  natural  that 
Mr.  Auchmuty  should  have  been  selected  as 
chairman.  My  own  place  on  the  committee  was 
not  entirely  fortuitous.  The  range  of  choice 
was  not  wide,  since  there  is  as  yet  no  very  great 
number  of  Americans  with  an  incorrigible  pas- 

241 


242  Old  Scores 

sion  for  small  nationalities  who  are  really  awak- 
ened to  the  national  needs  of  the  Aromunes  and 
Kutzo-Vlachs. 

But  just  the  same  I  had  a  rather  uncanny  feel- 
ing of  the  cosmic  humor  of  chance  as  I  waited 
in  Mr.  Auchmuty's  library,  under  the  cool  stare 
of  his  engraved  portraits  of  Mill  and  Bentham, 
John  Bright  and  Gladstone,  Goldwin  Smith  and 
Grover  Cleveland.  I  had  encountered  Mr.  Auch- 
muty  once  before,  long  before,  in  circumstances 
in  which  his  candid  good  faith  had  been  most 
shamefully  abused  by  a  political  group  in  which 
I  had  held  membership  as  a  precociously  po- 
litical-minded boy.  And  while  I  waited  in  his 
frigidly-ordered  library — as  usual,  I  had  come 
ahead  of  the  appointed  hour — I  could  not  help 
reviewing  in  my  mind  the  details  of  that  early 
encounter. 

We  were  a  prairie  farming  community  of  the 
middle  nineties,  obsessed  with  a  feeling  of  farm- 
ers' grievances:  low  prices,  juggled  weights  and 
excessive  dockage,  railway  discriminations, 
usurious  interest  rates  and  ruthless  foreclosures. 
And  we  had  made  up  our  minds,  universally,  to 
a  sovereign  remedy:  free  and  unlimited  coinage 
of  silver.  We  had  read  Coin's  Financial  School, 


Old  Scores  243 

E.  B.  Andrews  on  an  Honest  Dollar  and  a 
pamphlet  containing  extracts  from  Chevalier, 
badly  translated  and  therefore  the  more  authen- 
tically authoritative.  We  had  also  read  a  pamph- 
let by  J.  Laurence  Laughlin,  taking  the  other 
side,  and  there  was  not  one  of  us  who  could  not 
refute  it  with  a  single  well  chosen  imprecation. 
The  bankers,  the  professors  of  political  economy 
and  other  enemies  of  the  people  we  knew  were 
against  us.  They  commanded  a  whole  arsenal 
of  super-refined  sophisms.  But  our  minds  were 
too  thoroughly  made  up  to  be  penetrable  by  the 
guile  of  the  paid  advocate  or  the  pedantries  of 
the  endowed  professor.  The  people  were  per- 
ishing for  want  of  money.  The  mountains  were 
veined  with  the  good  white  metal  that  offered 
salvation.  What  more  might  be  said  was  plainly 
of  the  Devil. 

The  case,  then,  as  we  saw  it,  was  one  that 
did  not  admit  of  argument.  We  did  not  want 
to  hear  argument  on  it.  Indeed  the  attempt  to 
argue  so  definitely  closed  a  case  appeared  to  us 
immoral.  And  so  when  the  Republican  state 
committee  offered  to  send  among  us  the  Hon- 
orable John  Auchmuty  to  deliver  an  address  on 
sound  money,  or,  if  we  preferred,  to  debate  with 


244  OM  Scores 


any  free  silver  speaker  we  might  name,  our  first 
impulse  was  to  reject  the  offer  with  scorn.  De- 
bate the  Ten  Commandments!  That  was  what 
the  proposal  amounted  to.  But  it  was  October, 
when  the  air  of  the  prairies  is  crisp  and  the  ap- 
petite is  good  and  an  irrepressible  sense  of 
humor  permeates  the  prairieman's  blood.  Some- 
body cried  out,  "  Let  him  debate  Clay  Robin- 
son." It  might  have  been  myself;  it  might  have 
been  anyone  else,  for  it  was  one  of  those  sug- 
gestions that  express  exactly  the  sense  of  each. 
Clay  Robinson  was  an  occasionally  lucid  lunatic. 
He  labored  under  the  delusion  that  he  was  the 
greatest  living  orator  and  usually  succeeded  in 
dispersing  with  his  tongue  any  assemblage  he 
encountered.  Always  he  had  been  our  bane,  but 
now  we  had  good  use  for  his  talents.  So  we 
wrote  the  Republican  state  committee  that  the 
Honorable  Clay  Robinson  would  be  pleased  to 
meet  the  Honorable  John  Auchmuty  in  debate. 
We  guaranteed  a  large  and  enthusiastic  aud- 
ience. 

No  one  would  have  supposed  that  our  sparsely 
settled  district  could  have  produced  so  huge  a 
crowd  as  packed  into  Shreve's  Lyceum  Hall  to 
hear  the  debate.  In  the  middle  of  the  stage  sat 


Old  Scores  245 

our  chairman,  tapping  his  sides  to  make  sure 
they  would  hold  when  the  debate  got  under  way. 
Crouched  in  a  corner  was  the  Honorable  Clay 
Robinson,  darting  quick,  triumphant  glances 
from  under  his  tumbled  cataract  of  red  hair. 
The  train  from  the  South  was  late;  but  pres- 
ently a  whistle  announced  its  arrival,  and  in  ten 
minutes  the  reception  committee  mounted  the 
stage  escorting  the  Honorable  John  Auchmuty, 
spare,  erect,  with  his  coat  severely  buttoned  to 
his  throat,  his  burnsides  forming  severe  angles 
on  his  pale  cheeks,  his  prominent  blue  eyes  star- 
ing before  him  with  the  sad,  severe  expression 
immortalized  in  the  portraits  of  Matthew  Arn- 
old. He  seemed  a  bit  startled  when  the  Hon- 
orable Clay  Robinson  with  knees  crouched  and 
arms  swinging  darted  up  to  him  and  grasped 
his  hand.  A  gale  of  laughter  swept  the  room, 
but  we  covered  it  up  with  tumultuous  applause. 
Mr.  Auchmuty  bowed  and  smiled  under  his  joy- 
less eyes. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  began,  in  an  even5 
conciliatory  voice.  We  held  our  breath  and 
fixed  our  attention  on  Clay  Robinson  in  his  cor- 
ner, preparing  to  spring.  The  speaker  was  get- 
ting under  way.  What  he  was  saying,  of  course 


246  Old  Scores 

nobody  knew.  We  were  not  there  to  listen  to 
argument.  Mostly  he  appeared  to  be  quoting 
authorities.  He  paused  impressively  after  the 
name  of  Professor  J.  Laurence  Laughlin. 

"  Hold  on !  "  cried  Clay  Robinson,  springing 
menacingly  toward  Mr.  Auchmuty.  "  Will  you 
tell  this  crowd  who  J.  Laurence  Laughlin  is?  " 

"  I  shall  reply  to  this  question  later,"  said  Mr. 
Auchmuty  with  dignity. 

.  "Answer  him!  Answer  him!"  roared  the 
audience. 

"  Very  well."  Mr.  Auchmuty  presented  an 
emphatic  biography  of  Professor  Laughlin,  and 
proceeded  with  his  argument. 

"  Hold  on !  "  yelled  Clay  Robinson,  threaten- 
ing Mr.  Auchmuty  with  his  fist.  "  Will  you  tell 
us  whether  there  has  been  a  single  movement 
for  the  benefit  of  the  common  people  your  Pro- 
fessor Laughlin  has  not  been  against?  " 

"  Answer  him !  "  roared  the  audience  again. 

Mr.  Auchmuty  paused  to  get  his  indignation 
under  control.  But  soon  his  voice,  measured 
and  conciliatory  as  ever,  ran  through  the  roll  of 
Professor  Laughlin's  good  works  and  hurried 
on  with  the  argument. 

"  You  want  more   money.     You   think   that 


Old  Scores  247 

free  silver  will  give  you  more  money.  But 
would  the  gold  we  now  have  remain  in  the 
country?  Impossible.  Under  Gresham's  Law 
the  silver  would  expel  the  gold." 

"Hold  on!"  cried  Clay  Robinson.  "Who 
passed  that  law?  " 

Mr.  Auchmuty  drew  himself  into  his  extreme 
of  rigidity. 

"  That,  Mr.  Robinson,  is  an  economic  law.  It 
is  one  of  the  eternal  laws  of  nature.  Or,  if  you 
care  to  put  it  that  way  " — and  his  voice  trembled 
with  suppressed  energy — "it  is  a  law  of  God!" 

"  Hey !  "  shrieked  Clay  Robinson.  "  Ladies 
and  gentlemen !  This  man  puts  his  own  fool  no- 
tions into  the  mouth  of  God  Almighty!  Who 
does  he  think  he  is?  " 

For  a  few  seconds  the  audience  sat  aghast. 
We  were  for  the  most  part  swearing  men,  but 
this  was  downright  blasphemy.  Still,  the  sin 
rested  on  Clay  Robinson,  not  responsible  even 
under  the  mundane  law.  And  the  mien  of  John 
Auchmuty!  To  save  our  souls  we  could  not 
have  refrained  longer  from  laughing.  Spasm 
pursued  spasm  over  our  sides  until  they  were 
so  sore  that  we  could  hardly  gasp.  Mr.  Auch- 
muty seized  upon  the  first  approach  of  calm  to 


248  Old  Scores 

proceed  with  his  speech.  He  repeated  himself, 
hesitated,  stammered,  then  drew  from  his  pocket 
the  copy  prepared  for  the  press  and  read  it, 
hastily,  meaninglessly,  pausing  only  when  a  re- 
crudescent  wave  of  laughter  broke  over  the 
audience. 

At  last  Mr.  Auchmuty  made  his  final  bow. 
Clay  Robinson  leaped  to  the  edge  of  the  stage. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen !  No  living  man 
knows  what  the  speaker  said  or  why  he  said  it. 
But  this  is  what  he  ought  to  have  said."  Then 
followed  an  absolutely  incredible  farrago  of  non- 
sense. Mr.  Auchmuty's  eyes  seemed  to  be 
starting  from  his  head  as  he  listened.  And  when 
the  torrent  of  disjointed  phrases  came  to  an  end, 
he  looked  about  him,  bewildered,  as  if  seeking 
an  avenue  of  flight. 

"  Answer  him !  Answer  him !  "  roared  the 
audience.  Mr.  Auchmuty  rose,  stammered, 
hesitated. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  began  in  a  thin, 
shaken  voice.  "  I  don't  think  you  are  treating 
me  quite  fairly." 

The  audience  roared.  Mr.  Auchmuty  bowed 
abruptly  to  the  chairman  and  fled. 

After  I   came   to  know  what   a   sincere   and 


Old  Scores  249 

manly  friend  of  humanity  Mr.  Auchmuty  really 
was,  I  often  wanted  to  meet  him  and  make  such 
amends  as  I  could  for  my  part  in  the  outrage. 
But  no  occasion  had  presented  itself  until  I 
found  myself  by  chance  associated  with  him  on 
the  Committee  for  the  Promotion  of  the  National 
Rights  of  the  Aromunes  and  Kutzo-Vlachs.  It 
was  therefore  with  much  eagerness  that  I  rose 
when  I  heard  the  library  door  open  and  the 
sound  of  a  footstep  on  the  rug. 

Mr.  John  Auchmuty  had  remained  just  as 
spare,  erect,  severe  and  sad  of  countenance  as 
when  he  had  confronted  his  prairie  audience 
twenty-three  years  ago.  Only  his  burnsides  had 
turned  white  and  his  eyes  had  apparently  grown 
dim. 

"  I  think  I  have  never  had  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  you  before,"  he  said  affably. 

"  No.  But  I  heard  you  speak,  a  great  many 
years  ago." 

"You  did?"  He  smiled  benignantly.  "May 
I  ask  where?  " 

"  It  was  in  a  western  state,  in  free  silver  times. 
Do  you  remember  debating  the  money  question 
with  Clay  Robinson?" 

A  slight  flush  passed  over  the  old  man's  face. 


250  Old  Scores 

"  Do  you  know  I  never  thought  that  the  audience 
was  quite  fair  to  me." 

"No,"  I  replied.  "We  didn't  intend  to  be 
fair  to  you.  We  had  already  made  up  our 
minds." 

"  Now,  that  Honorable  Clay  Robinson,"  con- 
tinued Mr.  Auchmuty,  "  I  really  think  you 
might  have  found  a  more  logical  champion,  even 
if  you  did  have  your  minds  made  up.  Really, 
his  performance  wasn't  very  creditable  to  you, 
you  know." 

"  Good  heavens!  "  I  exclaimed.  "  Didn't  you 
realize  that  he  was  our  pet  lunatic?  Didn't  you 
see  that  it  was  nothing  but  a  put-up  job  to  have 
some  fun  at  a  gold  bug's  expense?" 

Mr.  Auchmuty's  face  turned  a  deep  crimson. 

"  Oh !  "  he  said  bitterly.  "  Nice  business, 
wasn't  it?  To  permit  a  gentleman  to  come  in 
good  faith  into  that  detestable  district  just  to 
humiliate  him!  And  you  men  considered  your- 
selves entitled  to  a  voice  in  American  govern- 
ment." 

I  did  my  best  to  exculpate  myself  on  the 
ground  that  it  had  not  been  my  personal  project 
and  that  at  the  time  I  had  not  even  attained  to 
my  majority.  It  did  no  good.  I  tried  to  get 


Old  Scores  251 

over  on  common  ground  by  taking  up  the  busi- 
ness of  our  committee.  We  could  not  agree  on 
a  single  point.  Should  we  describe  the  nation 
we  wished  to  befriend  as  the  Aromunes  or  as 
the  Kutzo-Vlachs?  I  voted  for  Aromunes, 
whereupon  Mr.  Auchmuty  insisted  on  Kutzo- 
Vlachs.  I  yielded  the  point,  whereupon  he 
went  over  to  Aromunes  and  charged  me  with 
trimming  besides.  Because  I  was  for  autonomy, 
he  would  hear  of  nothing  but  complete  national 
independence,  and  when  I  came  over  to  his  side 
he  expressed  his  scorn  of  the  superficiality  of  a 
man  who  would  make  an  independent  state  out 
of  a  people  scattered  over  the  flanks  of  Pindus 
and  the  foothills  of  Olympus,  with  a  long  stretch 
of  unfriendly  territory  between.  I  cursed  my- 
self for  permitting  the  ghost  of  an  ancient  prank 
to  rise  up  to  becloud  the  solution  of  a  live  inter- 
national problem.  All  I  could  now  do  was  to 
get  off  the  committee.  I  announced  my  inten- 
tion of  doing  so,  and  rose. 

"That  is  just  as  well,"  said  Mr.  Auchmuty 
acidly.  And  then  an  expression  of  senile  craft 
took  possession  of  his  eyes. 

"  Please  don't  go,"  he  said  with  forced  cor- 
diality. "  There  is  something  else  I  want  to  talk 


252  Old  Scores 

with  you  about.  I  am  a  reader  of  yours.  That 
is,  at  least  an  occasional  reader." 

"  I  am  much  gratified,"  I  replied,  rather  puz- 
zled by  his  veiled  manner.  "  I  hope  I  please 
you." 

"  Yes,  on  the  whole  you  do.  But  I  have  ob- 
served of  late  that  a  great  many  people  are 
criticizing  you  as  a  reactionary,  or  else  as  a 
Bolshevik.  And  I  really  think  you  ought  to 
answer  them." 

"Oh,  you  do?"  I  had  caught  his  drift. 
"You  really  think  I  ought  to  answer  them?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  I  do,"  he  replied  fervently. 
"  Everybody  says  you  ought  to  answer  them." 

"  Everybody,"  I  repeated  reflectively.  "  My 
friends,  or  those  who  want  me  to  borrow  trou- 
ble?" 

Mr.  Auchmuty  looked  at  me  balefully. 
"  Perhaps  both ;  but  it  doesn't  matter.  You  said 
you  had  to  go  ?  " 


000  051  453     9 


